Defying the Heart
by iamphantomgirl
Summary: I left Paris a broken man, only wanting to die in peace in my countryside home of Charpennes, but the tranquil life that I found there did not encourage death. I found something else instead.
1. Goodbye Paris

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

**My very first_ first _person story...please review!**

If there was hell then surely I was in it. I stumbled away from the burning theater with the smell of damp earth and failure obliterating my senses. Tears fell heedlessly from my eyes as I crawled away from my home like a whipped dog. In truth I was. A pitiful wreck without a heart, and as Christine believed, without a soul. In that moment I began to hate her. She was a beautiful, innocent child, and I was jealous of her for having what I would never have. The world lay at her feet, but I had been her doormat, eager to sacrifice myself for whatever she was willing to share with me. A simple kiss had undone me. One small thing, beget to so many men in their lives, yet it was my first. I felt the truth deep inside that it would be my last.

The tunnels leading away from the center of my home led to The Madeleine, and from there I planned on taking a carriage as far away from Paris as I could manage. I held several estates throughout Europe, but felt an odd reluctance to leave France altogether. I had left before, and no longer felt the desire to do so. Before I left though, I knew that I must find Nadir. I must fulfill my promise to Christine, that I would let her know when I died, but that her promise to me was to be forgiven. I would not make her return to give me the ring. My heart felt as if it had been tromped on, and I knew that for as long as I lived my pride would not return to me. The one thing I had prided myself on for so long was being able to distance myself from the emotions that plagued the people who hated me, and I had crossed that boundary by pursuing Christine. In the end I was a worthless begging fool, undeserving of mercy and forgiveness. My entire life I had felt unworthy of love, and she had shown me how pathetically weak I was with a simple kiss. I hated myself for needing that affection, for being a monster on the outside and a man on the inside. I hated myself for breathing, for being born. I wished again for the countless time that my mother had smothered me at birth. She should have ended my misery early, instead of letting me live out the last three and a half decades alone.

I climbed up from the familiar tunnels of my now former home, staggering slightly up the steps as a drunk would, and wished fervently for my mask or something to cover my face with. Nadir would help me, he must, after all that I had done for him in Persia. Still, he had repaid me there as well, but surely he had one small favor left for me after all this time.

As I walked along the Rue de Capucines I tried to keep to the shadows. There were hardly any people out at this time of night, but the fire from the Opera Populaire could be seen blazing behind me as I walked hurriedly toward Nadir's flat on the Rue de Rivoli. I cut across onto the Rue St. Florentin then found myself at the back entrance of his small flat, knocking hesitantly on a scarred oak door. The faint smell of cat urine was evident in the air, as if a tom had been around the small courtyard marking every available bush with his noxious scent.

Nadir opened the door cautiously, his dark eyes widening as he saw me. I kept the left side of my face in profile, unwilling to have him see me in the state I was in.

"You are a very foolish man, Erik."

I tried my best to glare at him, but found that I didn't have the heart. He was right. I was a fool. He sighed heavily, and opened the door to let me inside. I immediately sought out the single lamp in the room and dimmed it to almost nothing. I maneuvered him around so that he stood by the lamp, and I slunk off into the shadows.

"Did you lead that boy down there?" I whispered, avoiding his eyes even in the dark.

"No," he returned instantly, "I believe that I saw him with Madame Giry."

Strangely I felt betrayed. During some of my loneliest times I pretended that she was my mother, even though she was only a few years older than me. I knew at once when she found out about my meetings with Christine. I had been reprimanded harshly, as she did her dancers, and in a fit of rage let her know what I thought of her interference. Since that day she had barely spoken to me, merely carrying out my wishes with reluctance and obedience.

"Were you there?"

"Yes," he narrowed his eyes at me, "the fate of the young couple?"

"They are together," I closed my eyes and imagined them laughing about me. Poor unhappy Erik.

"Are they alive?" Nadir asked, leaning forward, trying to make out my features in the darkness.

"Yes!" I shouted suddenly, angry that he thought I would hurt her. How could I hurt her? She carried my heart. She was what I lived for. I could never hurt her, yet I knew that I had, in a deep and profound way. I had tried to steal her freedom, her hand, and threatened to kill the man she loved. She was no doubt glad to be rid of me, and I was certain she would forget me in no time at all.

I started to cry as I thought of her wedding day, looking at de Chagny with love and interest, things that I knew that I would never see, from her, or any other woman. Nadir was silent, and I noticed that he was turning up the lamp beside him. I fell into a chair, shielding myself from his curious eyes as I sobbed. He left the room and returned with something, which I thought at first with horror was a tissue, but realized through the hazy tears in my eyes that it was a cloak. I looked at him nervously for a moment, before taking the black garment and wrapping it around myself like an old friend. I covered my transparent scalp and scarred right face, grateful that he had given it to me, thankful that he did not comment. I sat there for several moments, trying to compose myself, then giving up and pinching myself viciously on the arm, distracting the pain in my heart with what I knew would be a lasting bruise.

"I need a favor, Nadir," I said quietly, waiting for a reaction from him.

He said nothing, and put his hands behind his back, rolling his shoulders inside the folds of his tunic.

"I'm dying."

The words hung in the air again, yet Nadir still did not seem eager to comment. I had felt like an intruder from the moment I stepped across his threshold, and knew that I was unwelcome in his home. I did not tell him what I was dying from. It would seem ridiculous coming from a man, and I knew that someone with his sensibilities would laugh if he knew that a broken heart was what would take this hideous beast to its grave.

"When my time comes, I would like you to place an ad in the Epoque, telling them of my demise. Tell them Erik is dead."

Nadir turned to face me then, and I knew why he had been silent. He didn't believe that I had freed them alive. He studied what he could see of my face, which was the left side of my nose and chin, and thought for a moment.

"That is all?"

I shook my head, then told him that I did not want Christine to return and bury me, or to leave me the ring. Somehow watching them leave together had changed everything for me. I would love her until I died, which I felt would not be long, but I was going to die as far from Paris as I could.

"She is free, you understand?"

He nodded, looking at me askance. No doubt he was trying to see if this was another trick of mine, but I must confess, I am all tricked out. No more ploys, no more schemes. The only thing that I am uncertain if I can abandon was music, yet I knew that it would be hard for me to play a single note. I stood abruptly, pulling the cloak around me tightly.

"Goodbye, Nadir."

He did not stop me as I walked back into the courtyard, pulling the door shut behind me. The streets of Paris were almost dead at this time of night, yet miraculously I was able to hail a carriage, requesting only that it begin a journey south. I was nodding off as the sun broke over the horizon, careless of the world around me, and of where I was heading. I awoke late into the afternoon when the driver stopped at an inn for a fresh horse and a hot meal. He asked through the door whether I would be coming out, and I declined, waiting impatiently for him to regroup. He sighed tiredly, as if he longed for the comforts of home, and I told him if he would carry me another day I would pay him handsomely, then he could be on his way.

I settled back against the carriage, pushing away all thoughts of Christine and the Opera Populaire. I hoped to never hear that name again, and gripped the velvet cushions of the carriage as I struggled to firmly close those doors. I wanted no reminders of my past, nothing to make me remember what I had lost, what I never really had.

When the carriage stopped again, I asked the driver where we were located.

"Bourgogne, I believe sir," his voice was muffled through the valance of the carriage, "near Dijon."

I processed this rapidly in my mind. Beyond Dijon was the town of Lyon. North of it was the village of Charpennes. I have a small chateau there, although I have never seen it. My accountant purchased it on behalf of me, as he did for so many things. I would have to see what it would take to get him to move to Lyon, but I believe that I have found the perfect place to die.

"Find me a driver who will take me all the way to Charpennes."


	2. Chauvin

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

Not that I cared, but the Chateau de Chauvin was a disaster. I couldn't believe that I had allowed my accountant to buy this wreck sight unseen, and wondered briefly what my other European estates looked like. The place sat squarely in the middle of a growing industrial district, so obscure that the vines that covered it made it look as if it were being swallowed by a thicket. Water stood on every available space on the sparse lawn, giving life to an extraordinarily large bed of hydrilla. There wasn't even a view of the river, nothing that would give me a reason why I had bothered to purchase this estate.

The house itself was slate gray, rectangle in shape with four bastion corners, each of them rising up around the steep mansard roof with pointed black Excalibur spires. The fluted end of them stopped just below the beginning of the first floor, making it seem as if the towers hung precariously on the side of the chateau. The third floor was completely encased in windows, although nothing could be seen through the blood red drapes that covered each one. I considered removing the vines that nearly engulfed the lower two floors, then discarded the idea. I wasn't coming here to reflect, rebuild, or socialize.

Of course, neighbors were infrequent. The only other occupied house that I could find was a small stone cottage several houses down from me. Apparently my little slice of heaven did not come with much land. I walked through the unhinged front gates, grimacing as water sloshed over the tops of my boots and chilled my legs. Thankfully it wasn't very deep, and for the last fifteen years my home had been surrounded by water. I guess some things just wouldn't change.

The front entrance appeared to be lacking a door, and on inspection I found that it was actually lying inside of the main hall, the wood splintered from being kicked in. I felt a flash of irritation that someone had came onto my property and I looked around cautiously for any guests. Finding none, I began inspection of the house with disinterest, my only requirements being that the water closet was furnished, and I had a bed. The grand winged staircase in the center of the hall looked as if a good dusting would send it sparkling again, yet I had no desire to make the place beautiful. Two hundred years ago this place had probably been an elegant home. Now it was here to serve one purpose. I wished to die, alone, as I had always been. Twin parlors jutted off from the sides of the stairs, leading out to a large library on one side, and a conservatory on the other. The second floor hosted a small parlor, a music room, and a ballroom.

The rest of the place seemed to be in as much disrepair as the outside. The only thing good about it that I could find was the third story of the estate was hardly touched. Apparently whoever had cleaned me out had not wanted to bother with the heavier furniture up here. I knew that the place had come fully furnished when I bought it. All of the estates that I purchased did. I never wanted to bother stocking them myself.

I looked down from the sturdy wooden balustrade into the bowels of the house, liking the fact that I could see straight down to my front door. The house wasn't all that big, but whoever had designed it had decided to incorporate many features of a traditional French chateau. The entire main hall was visible from any vantage point around the surrounding balcony on the second and third floors.

Sighing heavily, I pushed away from the staircase, nearly tripping over a rat that scurried away from me. I chuckled, thinking that nearly every home I had lived in I had shared with the disgusting creatures. I decided to get a mouser, something that could take care of themselves once I died, and rid my home of the rodent population. After all, the bulk of my estate would be going to my accountant of all people. There was no one for me to give my legacy to. I came into this world with nothing, and would leave with nothing, for no amount of money had made me happy, or would carry me into comfort for the life beyond this one.

Albert Merrill arrived two weeks after I settled into my home. His brief knock on the door surprised me, not because I wasn't expecting him, but because I still hadn't bothered to replace the door.

"Monsieur Gervais," Merrill nodded at me expectantly as he stepped through the open doorway.

"Come in," I said coolly, drawing Nadir's cloak around my face. Merrill has seen me without my mask before, but never without the wig. I shuddered, feeling Christine's hand reach up to rip it from my head. The ghost of her fingertips caressed my face briefly, and I clenched a hand around the growing ice pit in my stomach.

"I would ask that you remember our previous arrangement," I began, scowling when he gave me a pained look.

"Monsieur, I have many clients now. You couldn't possibly expect me to begin new here."

I looked at him dispassionately, letting him see how little I cared about his problems. Before we had lived in Paris he had been much more than an accountant for me. He placed bids on jobs, done investigative work, taken my laundry to be cleaned, and any grocery shopping that I needed done. Living in Paris had retired him from the contract work that I had done, but he managed all of my estates, still picked up my laundry, and still bought my groceries. For the last two weeks I had been living on tomatoes stolen from the garden behind the cottage down the street, and the vast array of fruit trees that its occupant had planted conveniently close to the fence.

He sighed heavily, indicating with his hand the large bundle of luggage through the doorway. I knelt down, quickly riffling through everything until I found the white half mask.

"Someone had stolen it," he muttered, then flushed when I looked at him.

"The mask?"

He nodded, "Madame Giry was able to get it back for me. I believe that her daughter took it."

"Little Giry stole from me?" I laughed, then turned away from him so I could put it on. Little Meg, who was always gasping and swooning every time I made an appearance in the theater, who annoyed me to no end, because she was Madame's daughter, and I had never done anything directly to her.

When I turned back to face him, he had grown pale. He never could look me in the eye when I wore this mask, and I used it to instill fear in him when I could. If only he knew how pathetically weak I felt, how much of a failure that I was. I had no power over anyone anymore. I used violence and aggression to get what I wanted in the Opera Populaire, but here I was on my own again. After all the years of being alone, surrounded by people, I was at last truly alone again.

Summoning my best sardonic and uncaring look, I drew myself up to my full height. He cowed back against the hall entrance, trying not to look fearful and failing abysmally. I felt a surge of guilt and shame, and ignored it.

"Bring me some food, then get someone in here to clean this mess up. The third floor is off limits."

I handed him a list of materials that I would need to repair the water closet upstairs, as well as clean linens and several other items. He took it without glancing at it, looking at me expectantly.

"Yes, Monsieur Gervais, is there anything else?"

I started to shake my head, then caught myself.

"If it must be a woman, make sure she is well older than I."

I never saw if it was a man or woman who came in to clean the lower floors of the chateau, I only know that when I emerged from upstairs a week later, everything was clean. They had stopped halfway up the third flight of stairs, as if cleaning only half a staircase bothered them, but they were too reluctant to leave anything unfinished. The house was empty, silent as a tomb, and I embraced my crypt with great passion. I was bored, and began tidying up around the third floor myself, only bothering with the two rooms I occupied: my bedroom and the bathroom. Unwittingly, I was becoming enthralled with the place, loving the feel of sunshine on my face during the day, wanting to see it shine again like the jewel it had once been. At night I would wake up screaming in terror, always either at the hand of the little Sultana, or of Christine tearing my mask away. After two weeks without it, I wore it now religiously, barely taking it off even to bathe.

I was never so glad to repair the bathroom upstairs at that. I was beginning to smell, and became embarrassed when I noticed Merrill wrinkling his nose at me. I knew it was not my appearance that he found distasteful. I had gotten a good whiff as well that morning, but was unable to do anything about it at the moment.

Merrill was becoming increasingly impatient, I could tell. I could hear him downstairs, stalking the length of the great hall as he waited for me to come down. I hadn't told him that if he played his cards right he would inherit my fortune. Somehow it didn't seem right, to give him such a comforting thought when I barely knew him. I had employed him for twenty years, yet could not tell you what color his eyes were, nor if he indeed had been born with all ten fingers and ten toes. I really didn't care, as long as he didn't betray my secrets. He alone knew the way to my lair from the street entrance, he alone had been allowed inside, although I'm not even sure if he knew that it was below the Opera Populaire. Whatever he thought of me, he kept to himself knowing that I was generous with money when I desired.

I leaned over the balustrade, watching with amusement as his bald head gleamed like a beacon below me. Not that I had anything to be amused about, but he sometimes reminded me of a professor my mother had hired when I was very young. I couldn't recall his name, but remembered a scuttling little man, always interested in one thing or another, unable to hold his attention on any one thing for any length of time.

"Merrill," I called down to him, watching him freeze below me. His head was bowed, and I wondered if he dutifully studied the floor.

"Yes, Monsieur Gervais?"

"I have some things for you to attend to, and then you may go back to Paris, but you must return here in two months time."

I released a slip of paper from my hand, watching it flutter down three stories onto the floor. I had a sudden flashback of doing that in the flies above the theater and scowled. If I had known that something so small would give me a memory of my former home, I would have walked down the damn stairs! Merrill scrambled after the paper, reading the list of things I would require while he was away.

"Is there anything else, Monsieur?"


	3. Not Weak Enough to Die

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

I'm not sure when I first realized that death was not going to claim me as quickly as I liked. Perhaps He didn't want me, perhaps He had forgotten that I was still alive. It had certainly seemed that way for most of my life. I knew that the burning shame consuming me and the gaping hole in my soul where my heart had been would forever be blackened with the hate and violence that had reigned inside me for so long. At times I still hated her, yet I loved her and missed her terribly. I could close my eyes and imagine her there beside me. At times I awoke with her sweet voice filling my mind. Suddenly our roles had changed, and she became a ghost that haunted me, terrorizing my dreams and filling me with joy and sadness in the same breath. Each dream ended the same, with her pulling my mask from my face. Sometimes in the nightmare my flesh came away as well, until Christine screamed from the sight of a white skeleton beneath the mask, oozing blood and clear slimy pus.

I would wake up sobbing and cold, drenched with sweat and tears. I cradled my hand protectively over my face trying to drown out the sounds of the crowd screaming and the smell of the burning theater. I do not know how many people died inside the Opera Populaire that night, and have almost convinced myself that I do not care. Almost.

What I would give to be the uncaring and unfeeling beast, cold inside and out. It is true that I am cynical and bitter, but I have never been able to stop the emotions that flood through me. I am a repressed man, very adept at hiding the demons inside of me. For years I was able to vent my rage and frustration on the managers and employees of the Opera Populaire. Now I had no one to punish but myself.

In any case, I realized that I was not going to simply die. Not like I wanted to. I would give anything to be free of this body, to either fly toward heaven, or be cast into Hell permanently. I don't think it could be any worse than the life I have already lived, but I have been told it is unbearable.

I moved everything out of my room except my bed, an armoire, and a small writing desk with a chair. I changed the linens myself, removing the canopy from the four poster bed and tossing it aside, then replacing it with black silk drapes. I chose silver for the linens, and it became a theme in my new room. I didn't want color in my life any longer. Red roses nor any other passionate shades of crimson are welcome in my life, so I removed every red drape in the chateau as well.

The bathroom was already black. Black marble tiles were scrubbed until they gleamed. I arranged everything at my convenience, as I had always done. I had learned everything about being a man on my own, except of course the things that men do with women. I knew that those things would forever be a mystery to me.

I woke up in the afternoons when the heat on the third floor became unbearable, and spent my evenings looking out over my swampy yard with disgust. I analyzed the lawn from every angle, then spent time at dusk walking around the back looking for a solution to my problem. The insects were a nuisance, I reasoned with myself. That was the only thing that made me want to drain the yard.

I found the answer to my dilemma in an overgrown canal directly behind the edge of my estate. I found a gardeners shed tucked amongst some river birch trees and found a shovel and some pipe. I stole crushed stone from an industrial site a few blocks away, transporting it in the dead of night on a crudely constructed wheel barrow made of various pieces of scrap wood that I also stole from the industrial site. I laid the stone inside three parallel trenches that were several inches deep, then laid pipe over the top of it. I allowed the trenches to fill with water, letting it slope downwards towards the canal until several days later most of the water was gone from my lawn. I was left with a huge mud hole instead of a swamp, but it was a start. I covered up the stolen stone with mud, smoothing three mounds down level with the rest of the yard, then returned the wheelbarrow to where I had found it.

I would sit out on a small veranda at the back of the estate, using an ugly wooden chair I had swiped from the third floor, and eat my meal in the evening. I really wanted no part of food, it was merely something that I got through with as quickly as possible. It interrupted me from doing other things. Such as brooding and stalking the empty lengths of my home. I know now that I will not die of a broken heart. Grief and depression are a sickness of the spirit, but they hardly cause physical harm unless you count raw eyes and a sore nose from crying.

However, I received a letter today from Nadir, via Merrill that I did not like. It felt like a solid blow to my internal organs when I read the words of a man that I should have called my friend, but was too stubborn to do so. I should have made it clear to my little accountant that I did not wish to receive any news from Paris, especially concerning Christine. The letter said that Christine Daae and Raoul de Chagny had married. I sent back a letter via Merrill to give to Nadir.

It simply said, 'Erik is dead.'


	4. Theif in February

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

* * *

I realize this has taken on a narrative feel, but I plan on making the rest of the fic with more conversation and more present tense grammar.Also, realize thatthis story is moving veryfast in the first few chapters. I don't want to have him meeting Ms. Right immediately after the disaster, know what I mean,Vern? This thing is taking on a life of its own. I didn't know first POV would be so easy to get into! Cheers, and don't forget to **review!**

* * *

The next few months passed in a blur. I felt numbness deep into my core, and began to develop an aversion to sleep. When I would finally lay down I would stare up at the black drapes above me, imagining myself in a coffin with Christine coming to say goodbye to me. I imagined that I would sit up and dry her tears with my hands, comforting her in her dark grief until she begged me to take her with me into the afterlife. She would lay beside me in the bed and we would whisper things to each other until our voices grew tired and we drifted off to sleep. 

Sometimes I actually held a conversation with her, knowing that indulging my delusions would drive me mad, but in too much pain to deny myself. If I didn't like the way the conversation went, I could change it. It was mobile, constantly flowing in different directions to suit my mood.

"I love you, Christine," I would whisper softly in the oppressively dim room.

"Oh, Erik," she'd sigh against my chest, her soft hand running lightly up my stomach until she cradled my face in her palm, "I love you too."

She held me as I cried, telling me that all was well. She was here now, with me. Everything had been a terrible dream, she would never betray me. She loved me and couldn't wait to be my wife.

Those talks terrified me. I would suddenly realize that I was alone and would scramble from the bed in fear, desperate to get away from the voices in my mind.

I began to clear the vines around the chateau at night, tearing away the brambles and ivy, as well as any other weed that had dared to touch my precious home. I started to love my new estate, glad that I had come here instead of anywhere else.

Merrill had moved to Lyon, and traveled between here and Paris frequently, although I suspected that he would soon be losing his clients in Paris. I was too demanding of him, and lately he had hinted that I should hire a housekeeper. Someone who could come in and do a few basic duties for me. I'd never had one before, and like a sullen child I insisted that he continue these tasks, but I knew it was unfair. He was an educated man. He deserved better than playing housemaid to a lunatic who talked to himself and saw his beautiful betrayer even after he opened his eyes from the nightmares. I talked to him about leaving for a few months, to sell some of my estates around Europe, and he seemed eager to begin the journey. I knew he really needed a break from me. By Christmas I was ready to hire someone to come in, demanding that he screen them first, making sure no young ones slipped past my doors, which I had finally replaced as well.

The first three women that came in had taken one good look at me and walked back out. When Eleonore came in I nearly sighed in relief just looking at her. A kind and warm spirit if there ever was one, she had stared at me for a moment then smiled. Her wizened face had broken out into a beatific smile, and she had shown me more warmth in that moment than I had felt in a thousand years.

Eleonore was a mother, grandmother, and had been a loving wife for more than fifty years before her husband passed on. When I found out that she had fallen on hard times, I begged her to take up residence in one of the spare bedrooms, but she refused. I think that even with her loving soul she sensed that I was a dangerous man.

I talked to Merrill about it, and he told me to use one of the cottages. I looked at him in confusion and he laughed.

"Monsieur, you own every single one of them."

I inspected them all dutifully, until I found the one in the best condition. I cleaned it for her myself and presented it to her, silently daring her to turn down such a gift. I even gave her the deed to it, telling her that I did not care what she did with it, that I wanted her to have it. She cried, turning her face away from me, but unwilling to show emotion to a stranger.

"Thank you, Monsieur Gervais," she whispered, her eyes sparkling at me over her shoulder.

It wasn't until later that I thought about the already occupied cottage, the one that had supplied me with tomatoes my first two weeks living here. I asked Merrill about it before he left for Germany, and he said that it was mine as well. I was curious about the occupant, wondering who was bold enough to live in a home that wasn't theirs, knowing that the master of the estate had come home at last. I decided that I would leave them be for now. They hadn't bothered me, in fact, I had not even seen anyone around the little house, although I knew someone lived there. The winter garden was constantly tended, and a woman's dress was occasionally hanging out on the line, a stiff looking brown sack-like garment that looked as if its wearer would blow away in a stout wind.

* * *

Snow descended on the valley, bringing with it the misery that was February. In the Opera Populaire, I would have been freezing half to death below the theater, but here I lit every fireplace in the house, partly for me, and partly because I heard Eleonore complaining that no matter how many coats she wore, she could never get warm enough. I chopped my own wood, and that was what had brought me outside on this fiercely cold night. I wanted to make sure that Eleonore had enough wood stocked at her cottage, and that she needed no help lighting her fireplace. 

I carried several arm loads of logs over to her front porch before knocking. She opened the door with a wide smile.

"Monsieur Gervais! Come in," she bustled back to the kitchen, bringing me a cup of hot tea. I tugged my gloves off, holding the delicate cup awkwardly, allowing the thin china to warm my freezing hands.

"I wanted to make sure you didn't need your fire lit," I said, staring at the swirl of cream breaking through the amber tea.

"Oh, I've been doing that for years, monsieur," she said lightly, pouring herself a cup of tea as well. She sat down in a dark green brocade chair, propping her feet onto a matching ottoman.

"Sit, sit," she chided, waving me into a wooden rocking chair.

I smiled slowly at her, grateful that she was not going to force me back outside so soon. She caught my look and smiled back, and I shifted my gaze over to the roaring fire in her hearth. I glanced back at her occasionally, never having seen an old lady's hair unbound and free around her face. She looked beautiful in the firelight, and I suddenly longed to have her touch me as I was sure she had done each of her children. I wondered if she had read to them at night, tucking them in with a hug and kiss as I'd seen Madame Giry do with Meg.

She had asked about my family once, and I had tried to bite back what I thought of her questions and failed. She hadn't asked anything personal of me since, and I felt ashamed for scaring her. I now wished that I had been more open. I longed to talk to her about my life, and in the same breath hoped that she never found out what a monster that I really am.

"My son's coming up for a visit," she smiled wistfully, her gaze resting on the ceiling.

I murmured something, I'm not sure exactly what, because I had no idea what to say. She looked over at me for a moment, opened her mouth to say something, then shut it again. She does that often, and I wish I had the courage to ask what she wants to tell me.

I don't find it odd that the only person I converse with is an old lady. I find it odd that Iconverse with anyone at all, and am just happy that my conversations with Christine have finally ended. She is still a painful memory for me, but I'm not nearly as emotional about it as I was. I suppose I'm still lonely, and feel that I will always love her, but time and distance have put things into perspective. I know she never loved me, never thought about me as anything but her Angel. It hurts, but I've learned to live with it. I may not be happy, but at least I no longer feel in danger of dying.

I suddenly realized I had been sitting in Eleonore's living room for the better part of an hour, and neither one of us had spoken. This was usually the extent of our conversations, but it was more than I had ever done before. I stood up, startling her out of a daydream and moved towards the door.

"You come back anytime, anytime at all."

She didn't plead with me to stay, but she touched my hand before I slipped my gloves back on, giving me a friendly squeeze. The ice around my heart cracked, and I inhaled sharply. She thought she had offended me, and removed her hand quickly. In slow motion I reached back out to it, holding the gnarled fingers in my own gently.

"Good night," I whispered, hesitating too long to press a kiss to the knuckles. I released her and stepped out into the night air, feeling as if the walls around my heart were about to shatter.

I walked back towards Chauvin along the street and had just made it past the occupied cottage when I saw someone darting out of my yard towards me, carrying something. We both seemed to see each other at the same time, and they tried to move swiftly around me. I stepped into their path and was knocked backwards roughly as they collided with me. Pain shot through my feet as their cargo landed on me.

"Thief!" I shouted, and reached out to box their ears.

"No!" They staggered backwards, shielding their face from me. I hadn't planned on giving any more blows. Hearing the voice made me stop.

"How old are you, boy?" I demanded, reaching out to grab a thin arm.

The moonlight reflected off the snow, and as he gazed at me his eyes widened in terror. I knew what he saw, the mask striking out at him in contrast to the shadowed side of my face.

"I...I won't hurt you," I said roughly, releasing him. He appeared to be no older than eleven, his eyes appearing strangely mismatched in the darkness. One was a pale blue, and the other I could not see. It looked as if it were sunken into his face. I leaned closer, trying to make out something, but found myself staring into an empty socket.

I looked down at the ground, wondering what would make a one eyed boy decide to break into my house, then stared at his loot in confusion.

"You were stealing fire wood?"

He nodded slowly, bowing his head.

"Where do you live?"

He remained silent for several moments, shuffling his bare feet, then looked pointedly over to the house behind me.

"You live in the cottage?"

He nodded again, casting a longing glance towards the house. He shivered visibly, his teeth beginning to chatter. I looked at his ragged clothes, then at his bare feet again. I sighed, then picked up the wood.

He looked frightened as I made my way over to his house. I stopped just short of reaching the porch and handed it to him. He looked at me in surprise as I stepped back into the shadows, obviously wondering why I hadn't demanded to speak with whoever was standing behind the window peering outside.

"Go on then," I muttered, almost telling him to ask next time, then deciding against it. I really didn't need a one eyed kid hanging around, begging me for firewood. My life was pathetic enough, I didn't need to invite every beggar and their family to share the misery that was Erik Gervais.

He kicked the door twice with his bare foot, and I briefly caught a pale oval face through the open door before it was shut, closing out the light that spilled onto mine.


	5. Peach Cobbler

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

I woke up early the next morning to a frigid house. I dressed quickly, hurrying downstairs to get the fires started before Eleonore arrived, and I found three jars of peach preserves on my steps. I stared down at them for a moment, then looked across the yard toward the cottage that I had been to last night. A now bare peach tree stood against the stark winter sky, its branches covered with a fine layer of snow. I wondered if they had known that I stole tomatoes from them. I flushed guiltily, feeling bad for taking something from someone who obviously needed it more than I.

When Eleonore came in, I asked her about the people living in the cottage. She shook her head at me.

"They are strange. I knocked, and no one would come to the door. I could hear them inside, but they wouldn't answer."

"I caught a boy stealing firewood from me last night," I said quietly, watching her face take on a look of concern, "he was missing an eye."

She pursed her lips thoughtfully, muttering under her breath. I crossed my arms over my chest, watching as she inspected the jars of preserves. She nodded, satisfied, and asked if I liked peach cobbler.

"Never tried it."

She gave me a startled look, as if everyone in the world should have tried peach cobbler. I shrugged, staring at the jar in her hands. I'd never actually had anything preserved either, but figured I didn't need to tell her that.

I kept an eye out on the cottage all day, but no one ever emerged. I went up to the third floor of the chateau, taking some sheet music with me to play around with, and sat in a bedroom on the west side of the house, facing the cottage. I tried for several hours to compose something, but I began to get frustrated. I didn't even have an instrument here, and I was trying to write music. I threw down my pen in disgust, vowing that I would have a violin by the end of the week. I should have taken care of it when Merrill was here, but had been too involved in clearing up the estate.

I looked out the window, surprised that it was growing dark, and spotted someone walking up the street towards the cottage. It was a woman, painfully thin from what I could tell. She was dragging her feet with every step she took, as if it was too great an effort to merely walk. She turned in at the cottage, and I again noticed how thin she was in profile. Her brown dress hung limply around her feet, the high neck and worn sleeves looking as uncomfortable as the stiff material it was made from. The door to the cottage opened, and an equally thin boy came out, his dark blond hair too long for his small face. He put his arms around the woman, then helped her inside. I stared out the window for a long time, and almost turned away when the door opened again. They both came outside this time and began trudging off to the woods. The boy carrying the wood splitter, the woman carrying the ax.

* * *

The woods behind my estate are overgrown, cut off from the rest of Charpennes by a steep canal that runs through the village before emptying out into a tributary beside the Rhone. The snow crunched under my boots, leaving no doubt to anyone ahead that I was coming towards them. I spied a flash of something ahead of me, then muffled voices. The boy took off running through the woods, the wood splitter dragging behind him, heading directly back to the cottage, and I looked around for the woman. I spied the markings of the ax into the tree. There was no sign of her, but I stopped moving until I could hear her breathing.

"I won't hurt you," I said gently, scanning where I thought she was hiding. The flutter of the wind gave her away, and I spied the course material of her gown whipping out from behind the trunk of an oak tree.

I wondered why I had bothered. She was obviously frightened to death, not only of me, but of anyone.

"You can use my firewood. You don't have to exhaust yourself out here like this," I tried again, sighing heavily when she didn't answer.

"I can see your dress, madame."

I heard a stifled sob from behind the tree and waited patiently. She stepped away from the tree, her head drooping onto her chest. I spied the ax clutched tightly in her hand, and wondered if she thought she could defend herself against me with it.

"My name is Erik Gervais," I approached her slowly, reaching out to take the ax. She dropped it mere inches before my fingers reached the handle, and scrambled backwards, her eyes wide with fright. I bent down to retrieve it, looking in disgust at the dull blade. It would be faster for me to return home and get mine, but instead I shrugged my cape off, sending the ax sailing into the tree that they had started on.

"Tell the boy to bring back the splitter," I grunted over my shoulder at her, relieved when she broke off into a run for the house. Strange little woman, I mused, wondering who had taken the time to scare her so badly she was frightened of answering her own door, even to Eleonore.

I cut through the tree quickly, although it would have taken half the time, even with a larger tree, with my own blade. I cut it into sections, biding my time until the boy returned with the splitter, wondering if he would. It was dark when I saw a lantern cutting across the field, and with surprise, they both returned, the woman standing back several feet while the boy handed me the heavy splitter.

"You don't have to do this," her voice was low and husky in the darkness, as if she had been crying.

I ignored her, splitting the wood quickly, grateful that the only light around was from the lantern. I wasn't in the mood for being stared at, and the mask was becoming uncomfortable as a cold sweat broke out beneath it. They both ventured close enough to grab an armload of wood, before scurrying back across the dark field, leaving me with both tools, the lantern, and enough wood to get them through the night. I delivered two loads before I went back to retrieve their tools, leaving everything on the stone steps of the cottage. I walked back to my chateau, gratefully exhausted, and was nearly asleep before I remembered that I still didn't know what peach cobbler tasted like.


	6. The Rent

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

The next day I inspected the empty cottages, deciding that the remaining two would have to come down. The stable had burned down some time ago, and no one had bothered to replace it. I planned on having a horse soon so that I could ride around the streets of Lyon if I chose. The cottages were not in good shape anyway. I didn't plan on renting them out either, so I figured I wouldn't need them. They were both completely cleared out, except for various bits of garbage and pieces of burned wood. I was looking at the stone work on one, trying to decide if it was salvageable when I felt someone watching me. I turned around slowly, seeing the boy standing directly behind me, his blue eye staying steady on me as he moved his head around, looking me up and down.

I turned back around to the stones, running my hand over them looking for cracks. I didn't find any, and decided that when Merrill came back I would have him send a crew over. I had no desire to tackle such an obstacle myself. I planned on making music again, and knew that it would consume me once I had an instrument again.

"What are you doing?"

I turned my head, finding the boy about three feet closer than he had been. His skin was pale with a light sprinkle of freckles across his nose and beneath both of his eyes, with gap teeth and dark blond hair that reached nearly to his shoulders. This close I could make out the blank socket clearly, and studied a vertical scar that ran through his brow and a below his lower eyelid. The eye covering itself didn't seem to be present, and I knew then that he had been stabbed through his eye. I wondered what sort of man would do that to a boy, or if it had been an accident.

"I'm going to tear down these old houses and build a stable," I replied slowly, wondering why I had volunteered anything.

His blue eye lit up and he gave me a small smile, "For your horse?"

I nodded, looking down at his bare feet.

"Aren't you cold?"

He shrugged, rubbing the empty socket absently as the wind cut around the house at us. I wondered how bothersome it was to not be able to blink something out of your eye, even if it was missing. His gaze fell on my mask, and I shifted uncomfortably, wishing he would go away.

"I'm Peter," he offered, reaching out towards me to shake my hand. He looked like he was scared that I might actually take it.

I almost grinned, remembering how I had been as a boy, eager to prove myself as a man. Shaking another one's hand was tantamount to fighting one. If you could shake his hand, he would have to look you in the eyes.

I stuck my arm out to him, taking his dirty hand in my gloved one.

"I'm Monsieur Gervais," I replied curtly, turning back to the stone work. There really was nothing else that I could do with the house right now, but he stepped up beside me and looked at it as well.

"It's the first of the month," he said tensely.

Baffled, I agreed, wondering what that had to do with anything. He was frowning, his eye fixated on my leather boots. My toes scrunched up inside, and I felt guilty for having something that he didn't.

"I hate the first of the month," he whispered, then turned around and ran away from me.

I stared after his thin form, running haphazardly across the street and into his own yard, his small bare feet making tracks in the snow. I wondered what happened on the first of the month.

* * *

I found out later that day, when I observed two gentlemen at the door of the cottage. I was on my way home from escorting Eleonore home when I spotted them.

"Mademoiselle, we know you are in there!"

One of them, tall and reed thin stood at the bottom of the steps, his shoulder leaning negligently against the post. The other, short and stocky beat on the door again until it opened. Peter was shoved roughly out of the cottage as the short man went inside. He stared at the thin man with a look of fear and hatred on his face.

A loud slap came from within the house, turning my veins to ice and putting a red haze across my eyes. I walked into the yard beside Peter.

"What's going on?" I growled at the dark haired stranger, placing my hand protectively on the boy's head. He stiffened beneath my hand, and I removed it.

He turned and looked at me warily, "Rent's due, mind your own business."

I strode up to the door and knocked on it impatiently.

"Did you hear me, I said mind your own business!" He put his hand on my arm.

I had him by the throat so fast he barely had time to stop speaking before I rapped his head against the post, knocking him out cold. I glanced over at Peter, who was staring at me in apprehension.

The woman inside started screaming and I put my shoulder against the door, sending it crashing open. It was not hard to locate the source of her cries. He was standing over her, a foot poised above her to kick her in the ribs when he stopped to look at me. Her brown dress was bunched around her hips, her stockings had been ripped on one leg, and one shoe was missing.

"Step away from her," I said calmly, my hands clenching at my sides, the urge to kill like an angry animal that I was barely controlling.

"Who are you?" he spat, glaring at me.

"I own this property. Who the hell are you?" I questioned harshly, stalking towards him.

His eyes widened with each step I took, until I could smell the fear emanating from him.

"Have you been charging these people rent, on my house?" I asked furiously, leaning close to his face so that he could see the hatred in my eyes.

"Y...Your house? I..I see," he stuttered, unable to think of a suitable lie. I grasped him around the collar and pushed him outside with his friend.

"What have you been charging them?" I demanded.

"Tw..two francs," he said weakly, his fat cheeks quivering as he tried to pull away from me. I pulled him closer.

"If you ever bother them again, I will slit your throat."

I released him and watched as he roused his friend, both of them stumbling out of the yard into the night. I turned back to Peter, who was cowering behind a shrub. I walked over to him, seeing a trail of yellow in the snow around his feet. He shook uncontrollably and I almost went back after the men. Instead I scooped him up in my arms and carried him into the house. He buried his face against my neck and hisgangly arms crept around to steady himself. I could feel his tears and breath against my skin and I clutched him tighter to me. The woman was sitting on the floor, her dress pulled modestly around her feet, but she was staring vacantly at the wall.

I looked around the room, and knew instantly where the majority of my furniture had disappeared to. The small house was lavishly furnished, most of the pieces matching what was on the third floor of the house. They didn't quite fit in with the size of the cottage, but I knew they needed it more than I would. I sat the boy down on a leather winged back chair and crouched down beside the woman.

She flinched when I reached out to her, moving a mass of dull brown hair away from her face. If she had a good meal every now and then, there was no doubt that she would be pretty. Sleek arching eyebrows rested above wide green eyes, high cheek bones protruded above hollowed out cheeks, pointed at the center with a pale pink mouth. Her lips were scabbed over in several spots, no doubt from the winter wind, and there was a growing bruise on her slender jawline.

"Madame, are you okay?" I whispered, trying to get her to look me in the eyes. She still stared at the wall, and I looked down at her hands. Her fingernails were bloody underneath, and I knew she had taken a good inch of flesh from the fat man.

"Those men...," I began, and she turned her eyes to me at last.

"Your friends?" she whispered softly, and I shook my head at her.

"I don't know them."

"He said...," she drew her brows together, closing her eyes, "he said he collected rent for his friend."

"He was lying, Madame."

"I'm unmarried," she said blankly, "it's Mademoiselle."

"Will you let my housekeeper come over here and help you?" I asked, knowing that Eleonore would jump at the chance to assist in any way.

She started to shake her head, then looked over at Peter. He was watching us both with fear. Her eyes finally met mine, staring at the mask a moment.

"The rent...," she began, then looked back over at Peter, "I don't have the money, but..."

"No," I said hoarsely, wondering how she could even think such a thing, "I don't want _anything_ from you."

I stood up and moved away from her, barely able to control my temper. How dare she offer me something like that! No woman had ever dared to offer me something so intimate, and I felt shameful because for a moment I considered it. I felt Peter watching me again, and I glanced over to him.

"You will let Eleonore inside," I said gruffly, then strode out of the house.

* * *

If you don't start reveiwing I'll never forgive you! Seriously, I've written six chapters in two days, throw me a friggin bone here, Doctor Evil... 


	7. Sera

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

Eleonore didn't volunteer any information about her visit to the cottage, and I didn't ask. I was still disturbed by the woman's subtle offer, wondering how desperate she had to be to prefer me as a landlord over that sweating pig that I nearly killed. I had no intentions of seeing her again, not wanting to explain that I would not be charging her rent, and that she could stay there as long as she liked. I hated feeling charitable, especially to someone who obviously needed it, and I didn't want any thanks for it.

I chopped enough wood for all three houses and dropped a little off every time I made a trip to Eleonore's. I didn't put it on the porch, just dropped it off at the edge of the yard. Whenever I would go back, the pile would be missing and I assumed that Peter was the one collecting it. Three mornings in a row I found some sort of fruit jar sitting outside. They stopped when I returned them all. I refused to take food out of the mouth of a woman and child, no matter how delicious Eleonore's peach cobbler and apple pie was.

Merrill returned in mid March, happy to tell me that three of my estates had been sold. He asked if I wished to hear any news from Paris. I told him no, even though I did. Later that week a violin and pipe organ were delivered to my house, as well as some furniture for downstairs.

I sat inside my room for nearly two days playing. Eleonore climbed the stairs at the end of the second day, her breathing heavy when I opened the door. Her face was flush and she tried to hide the fact that her legs were aching.

"Eleonore, are you okay?" I asked in concern.

"Stairs," she wheezed, gripping the frame of the open door.

I pulled her into the room, sitting her down at my desk. She closed her eyes for several moments, until her breathing was able to return to normal, and her legs were steady again.

"I wanted to make sure you weren't ill," she rasped, meeting my eyes.

I flushed, feeling guilty for making her worry, and pleasure that she did.

"I'm sorry. I get caught up in music sometimes..." I gestured to the violin lying on the bed.

Her eyes lit up when she saw it.

"Monsieur Gervais, I had no idea that you played!"

Hesitantly I picked it up and played for her, choosing something I had written recently, instead of anything from the past twenty years. She was smiling when I finished, and clapped her hands in glee.

"Monsieur, that was magnificent!"

I couldn't help but smile under her praise. I don't think I have ever been complimented on my music before. It is something I purely write for myself, and for awhile, Christine.

"Please, call me Erik."

I escorted her carefully back downstairs, then across to her small cottage. She opened the door, and asked if I wanted to come inside. I shook my head, wanting to return to my room and play again. Her weathered hand reached up and touched my cheek briefly, the right one, not the left.

"You play beautifully Erik," she said gently, tears gathering in her eyes, "I hope that one day you can let go off all that pain."

"Pain?" I whispered, my voice tight. I felt again the walls around my heart threatening to cascade around me. If they did, I wasn't sure if I could recover.

"It's in your eyes," she said softly, her hand pulling away from me.

I left her beside her open door, skulking off to my estate. I needed to put some distance between us, otherwise I would wind up telling the benevolent old lady everything. I returned to my room to play, standing near the open window playing out into the soulless night. I cradled my head in my hands afterward, removing my mask and crying for the first time in weeks.

* * *

Construction on my new barn began towards the end of March, the crew alternating work on the barn on days that it did not rain, and tearing down the cottages on days that it did. I made it clear to Merrill to warn them that I would not be cheated out of an honest days labor from any of the men. I gave him the design that I had in mind, satisfied when the foreman said that it was a brilliant layout. I watched the progress every day, which is when I noticed that early in the morning the lady in the cottage left, heading towards the factory section of town, and she returned in the same manner each night: dragging her feet forward, as if she was exhausted beyond measure.

The work on the barn was nearly complete in mid April when Eleonore's son arrived. I knew something was wrong the morning after he arrived. Eleonore was agitated as she served me an elaborate breakfast. I had told her before that I did not require much, and after having to toss most of the food she cooked during the first few weeks of employment, she served me smaller and simpler meals. Her face was pinched, her mouth pursed, and she looked on the verge of tears. She knocked over a pitcher of water and started to fuss immediately, trying to dry it up before it reached me.

I stood up and grasped her arms gently, "Eleonore, please tell me what's wrong."

She sighed, brushing away tears, "My son's wife is expecting again."

It took a moment for the words to register, but I couldn't see why this would have her so upset.

"He lives in Paris, and wants me to return with him and help with the child."

I shook my head, backing away from her. I couldn't allow her to leave.

"I must go Erik," she said tearfully, "my family needs me."

Her words caused an alarmingly violent flash of jealously through me, even though I had no right. She was my housekeeper for God's sake, nothing more, yet I knew she had become firmly entrenched in my heart.

"How long?"

"I...I don't know yet," she said, her rheumy eyes looking at me, "I'm not a young woman anymore. I don't know how much longer you could keep me here anyway."

"You wouldn't have to work another day in your life if you would stay."

She shook her head, then reached out to take my hand.

"You need someone who can take care of you. You need a wife..."

Anger and hurt smashed through me, and I stormed away from her, knocking over a vase of flowers like a spoiled child.

"No woman wants this!" I shouted at her, the hate for myself coming to a head. "There isn't woman alive who could love me!"

I calmed down when I saw that she was crying again, and that she was frightened of me. I never wanted her to be scared of me.

"I'm sorry, Eleonore," I walked back to her, trying to think of something to say. How could I tell her that she had become like a mother to me? I wouldn't make her stay out of guilt. If she had to go, I knew that I must accept it.

She smiled wanly, "I thought perhaps you could get Sera to come in."

"Who?"

She gave me a questioning look.

"Sera, inside the cottage."

I hadn't known the woman's name, and I was immediately put off by the advice. I didn't really want her here, but I really didn't want to have to go through with finding a replacement. Perhaps she would find working here more agreeable and less tiring than working in a garment factory.

"If you can convince her," I said curtly, "then she may work here."

I sulked in my room the rest of the day, watching the workers put the finishing touches on the roof of the stable. Tomorrow was Saturday and I planned on going to the market with Merrill and finding a horse. I concentrated on that, glad that I would have a little freedom away from the estate. I had been here for nearly a year and hadn't left. That wasn't really surprising to me. I once went for five years without leaving the Opera Populaire.

I wasn't looking forward to Sunday when Eleonore would leave, and Sera would take over. I vowed to keep out of her way as much as possible, if she even agreed to become my employee.

* * *

I'll be doing some first person POV from Sera's perspective, just to switch things up a bit. I love writing for Erik, but he isn't always easy to pin down. Most of this story will be in Erik, but I will put in some from Sera. I hope you guys like her, I'm just making this up as I go along. Don't forget to review! 


	8. The Offer

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

_Sera_

I knew the night that I heard him playing the violin that he wouldn't harm me. The day that he had tossed Bernard and Vincent out on their ears I had been frightened. The night he delivered Peter home and wood to the porch I had been terrified. At dusk, alone with him out in the field I thought my heart would explode within my chest from fear.

The first time I ever seen him he was stealing a tomato from my garden. He chose the best one, the largest and ripest one he could find, then several apples before going back to the huge chateau. I lived in terror from that moment on. Every single piece of furniture in my house had come from there. I woke sometimes, guilt plaguing me, worried that at any moment he would come over and demand that I return his things.

I wasn't actually the one who had stolen them. Peter had. One day last year I returned from the factory and found all of our old furniture in the yard, strewn across it as if the place had been ransacked. I had been furious with him, but he had been so proud, telling me that thieves had broken in and stolen everything but the furniture. How can you blame a one eyed child for any wrong doing? I didn't have the heart to make him put it back, but wished that I had when I found out that the owner of the estate had returned.

I believed at the time that Bernard was collecting rent for him. Very seldom would he actually take money, yet the only times he was able to take anything else was when I screamed. I soon realized that, and he became furious with me when I refused to make a sound. There was one thing I couldn't tolerate though. I hated to have my hands burned. If he burned them, I couldn't work, couldn't do much of anything.

I stopped allowing him to come to the house, not wanting Peter to hear, but at times he did anyway. I begged him not to, but the only thing he wanted to hear was me screaming in pain. I would stay after work, waiting for him to take me into the abandoned factory next to ours, where he could take payment for something that wasn't his. The relief and rage that I felt when Monsieur Gervais told me that he didn't know the man was tremendous.

I felt like a complete fool, and felt shame down into my core. I had allowed Bernard to use me, believing that as long as Peter was safe that I could withstand whatever he inflicted on me. When Monsieur Gervais quietly turned me down, my mechanical offer to allow him the same liberties as Bernard had taken, I had felt lower than the earth. The man was obviously well off, and would have no need for a dirty rag girl like me. He could afford the highest priced brothel in France, and no doubt laughed to himself later about my naive offer.

Peter had pulled me from the house one night, making me trudge through the cool spring night onto the opposite side of his estate. We stood beneath his window and listened to the most beautiful music we had ever heard. Tears had fallen from my eyes as I stood there, ashamed of what I had made of my life, of what I couldn't offer for Peter. He was my little brother. I was supposed to protect him, to care for him, yet I hadn't even been able to do that for myself. I sold my body for shelter, making myself as good as any hooker who walked the streets of Lyon. The man above me was a pure, untainted angel. I knew that a man capable of producing something so beautiful had to have a heart of pure gold.

* * *

I stared at Eleonore in bewilderment. She had just asked me if I would like to take her place, saying that it may only be temporary, but that the pay was very good. My heart raced at the thought of leaving the garment factory. Bernard wouldn't look me in the eye, but while my back was turned I could feel him boring holes into my skull. Even if it wasn't permanent, I could save up enough money to move away. Perhaps I'd go back to Paris, or even to another country. 

"What is he like?" I asked hesitantly.

I knew that he was temperamental, but I had never heard him strike her. My father had been a big bear of a man, always fighting with my mother, but he had never laid a hand on her. Alcohol had made him want to argue, but he hadn't been motivated enough to do much else. Mostly I think he wanted to rile her, then tell her how beautiful she was when she was angry.

My life had changed dramatically when he died.

"Oh, he's wonderful," she smiled, although her expression was a little sad. I understood. When I had looked into his eyes I knew that he was not a happy man. Sometimes I saw that look in Peter's eyes, and imagined him looking much the same way in twenty five years.

"He composes music," she said proudly, "and he walks me home almost every night, to make sure I don't fall."

I could see that Eleonore cared for him a great deal. I glanced down at my one dress, material that I had purchased over two years ago for its durability. I hated it. It irritated my skin, and was uncomfortably hot in the summer. In the winter it held heat in well, but wasn't soft against my skin like the pretty dresses I had worn when I was younger. I plucked at it absentmindedly, imagining a new dress, made of a pale shimmering green. I imagined shoes for Peter, which he had not owned in over a year. The garment factory would not employ a one eyed child, a fact that I was grateful for, no matter how much we needed the money. Children died there all the time, as well as women. Bernard was one of the main supervisors, constantly shouting for us to finish. I had started work there almost two years ago, and he had overheard me talking to another woman, about how my step father had thrown us out, and we would need a place to stay. He had kindly offered to let me use this cottage, conveniently close to work. The first six months I had been able to pay the rent on time. After that, he began to demand other forms, and by that time I was too terrified of him to take Peter and run as far away as I could. I couldn't have afforded it either, and knew that we would both starve if I didn't do what had to be done.

I must have began to scowl because Eleonore reached out to touch my hand.

"He's a good man," she said softly, "he just doesn't realize it. He'll do right by you."

I searched her face, finding the true depth of her feelings for him there.

"I accept."

* * *

Those two words seemed to seal my fate. That morning, while he was gone to the market with his accountant, Eleonore showed me around the chateau. It was the first time I stepped inside, and I began to feel uneasy as I walked around the nearly bare rooms. I could picture most of the furniture from my cottage in here, and wondered how Peter had gotten any of the heavy stuff down from the second floor by himself. 

She showed me how he liked his tea, and gave me instructions for his meals, which was surprisingly minimal. She told me that the majority of her responsibilities was in running errands with him. He very seldom left the estate, but now that he had a horse he would probably be able to leave more often.

She took me upstairs to his room, and I stared at the somber mood he had constructed inside. Everything was black except for thesilver silk sheets and coverlet. I blushed as I imagined him lying there, or doing something so intimate as playing his violin. Sheet music was scattered everywhere, as well as the wasted stubs of candles. It smelled like wet ink and the blown out wicks of the numerous candles around his desk.

The only thing I was allowed to touch was the bathroom. She hadn't been able to clean it much because of her arthritis, but she told me that he wouldn't mind if I did it occasionally.

She stopped beside a cabinet in the bathroom, pausing before opening it.

"He has these cleaned every now and then, but you shouldn't mention it when you take them."

Inside were several hair pieces, all black in color, sitting on mannequin heads.

"He has to wear..." I started, then promptly shut my mouth. It wasn't any of my business. I wondered what he was concealing beneath his mask. I couldn't imagine it being anything hideous, not with the left side being so attractive, but I knew that sometimes things happened. He could have been burned, or even tortured.

After Peter's injury, I knew anything was possible.

She handed me one, "There's a shop in Lyon. I'll get you the address."

I turned it over in my hands, touching the slightly coarse hair. It didn't feel like regular hair, and if you ran your fingers through it, it didn't fall back into place. I gave it back to her, wondering how in the world I would be able to do something so personal for him. If she said that I shouldn't mention them, it must mean that he is sensitive about his hair.

"Have you ever seen...?" I started to ask, but she cut me off.

"No, and I would advise you not to provoke him about his past, or of the mask."

Her words were more of a protective warning, towards him, not towards me.

She closed the cabinet door and ushered me back downstairs. She wrote down a list of things for me, including the obscure address of the person who cleaned his clothes and wigs, then wrote down what he liked to eat. I smiled at the last thing on the list.

Peach cobbler.

* * *

Well, how do you like Sera so far? 


	9. Like a Mule

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

We arrived at the market early, forgoing the option of catching the greater assortment of horses, and choosing instead to pick from the earliest arrivals. I walked past each stall, a cloak pulled around my half my face and head, inspecting each horse quickly. I found the one I wanted relatively easy. A dark mahogany bay gelding stood in his stall, stamping impatiently. I looked him over carefully, inspecting his feet while Merrill negotiated a price. I heard the man say he was a Hanoverian, but breed didn't matter to me. I bought some tack from him as well, and plucked the white tape out of his mane as I rode him towards the entrance to the market place. I undid each ridiculous knob-braid, letting him know early on that he wouldn't have to wear something so ridiculous for me.

On my way out, with Merrill shuffling along behind me, I saw a boy leading a chestnut horse towards a stall, a petulant look on his face.

"Father, I promise I'll feed her this time!"

The man in front of him rolled his eyes and continued on. I looked at the boy, about Peter's age, and his voice began to grate on my nerves as he continued to whine. What did he have to be so unhappy about?

"Merrill," I said urgently, waiting for him to walk up beside me.

"Monsieur?"

"Go back and purchase that horse. The one with the obnoxious child. Buy the saddle and everything," I ordered, demanding that he hurry back.

He returned with the little horse in tow, which I inspected quickly, grateful that there was nothing obviously wrong with her. I let down the stirrups and rode her home instead of the gelding. I was satisfied by her placid nature by the time I arrived, and smiled when I saw Peter standing in his yard watching me lead them both around the barn.

"Peter, could you come here please?" I called through the trees that separated their yard from my barn.

A moment later he appeared, his eyes fixated on the horses.

"Yes, Monsieur Gervais?"

"Have you ever been around a horse before?" I was surprised when he nodded, but didn't comment. If he was lying I would soon find out, but he moved around the little mare with ease.

"I used to have a horse, when I was eight," he said in a matter of fact tone, as if that had been a lifetime ago.

"I need a stable boy. Do you think you could handle feeding and cleaning stalls? I may need some grooming work done as well."

He stared at me, his blue eye narrowed, his mouth forming a small frown.

"You want me to work for you?" he asked, dubiously.

I nodded, and he turned his gaze back to the horses momentarily. His next words were a whisper, so low that I had to ask him to repeat them.

"What about my eye?"

It was my turn to stare. I inspected it carefully, wincing when he appeared to think that I was reconsidering.

"Did someone tell you that you couldn't do something because of this?"

He ducked his head and whispered, "Yes."

I laid my hand on his shoulder, squeezing until he looked up at me.

"Don't ever let anyone tell you that you can't do something. Especially because of that."

He looked at my mask for a moment, opening his mouth to say something, then closing it when I began to glare at him. I told him to go ask his mother for permission to work here and he laughed.

"Naw, she's my sister," he said scathingly, as if Sera didn't have any authority over him.

"Ask anyway," I insisted, then put the horses away.

The barn wasn't completely finished, but there were two stalls available. I showed him how to put fresh shavings down, then the pump beside the barn where he could draw water. Hay and grain had been delivered yesterday, but in the mornings they were to be turned out into a small paddock that would be finished after the barn was complete. I checked to make sure they were comfortable with me cleaning their feet, and let Peter practice on the mare. I decided that I would wait a few days before telling him that he could ride the mare. I wanted to see how adept he was at handling them.

When I entered the house Eleonore had prepared a small lunch for me, and I had almost sat down when Sera emerged from the kitchen as well. She froze when she saw me, and her eyes immediately glanced away. Eleonore watched the exchange, smiling hesitantly when I brooked a glance at her. Apparently tonight was to be Sera's initiation into the household. I chewed my food mechanically, wondering if Sera or Eleonore had prepared it. I felt annoyed that she was here interrupting my last night with Eleonore, but knew that I should get used to her presence. At least she didn't gawk at the mask, although I caught her staring at my head a couple of times. I tried to ignore the impulse to reach up and straighten the hairpiece, but the last time she caught me looking at her. I pushed away from the table, stomping up the stairs as quickly as I could. Humiliation and rage threatened to boil over until I reached my bathroom, then I wanted to scream.

There was nothing wrong with my hair. It was in perfect position, the same as it had been this morning. I hated having to wear them, and hated it even more that she would have to take them to be cleaned. I didn't like Merrill touching them, and had been enraged when I saw him holding one once. Eleonore didn't bother me as much. She was discreet. I hoped to hell that the new woman working here would be as well. I could ignore the shame, as long as I didn't have to see the object of my humiliation.

I would have stayed in my room the remainder of the day if I hadn't been in fear of Eleonore climbing the stairs herself, or even leaving without saying goodbye. I walked out into the hall when I heard voices. I leaned across the balustrade and saw her and Sera talking in front of the main doors.

"I really am sorry," Sera said, her hands moving animatedly.

Eleonore gave her a reproachful look, "I would think you of all people would know better than to pry into someone else's life. He is a private man, and I warned you not to bother him."

She clenched her hands together in front of her body, her eyes on them.

"Do you think he will reconsider the offer?"

"No, but I would suggest you try and be a little more compassionate next time," I had never heard Eleonore speak in such a harsh tone. I almost applauded the vehement tone of her instructions. If I had made a mistake in hiring her, I would be hard pressed to correct it. Especially now that I had hired on Peter as well. I suppose I should have waited and seen how his sister would work out, but I knew the boy could do the job. He just needed someone to believe in him. Besides, I think he was fast on his way to becoming a thief, and they hung little boys like him every day for less than stealing.

I made enough noise coming down the stairs that they had both stopped speaking by the time I made it all the way down. The little mouse stepped forward, her ugly brown dress making scratching noises as she took three small steps toward me. I was surprised when she looked me in the eyes, and oddly discomfited.

"I...I wanted to thank you for the position here, Monsieur Gervais," she whispered in her low, husky voice.

I almost told her she had no idea what she had signed on for, but I murmured an appropriate response, resisting the urge to bow. I felt unnerved before her, like she knew a secret about me, and had vowed to keep it. I had to bite my tongue to keep from telling her to get out of my house. My sanctuary of the past year had been invaded by a woman, one who had offered me something only weeks ago, that I had never had. I stared impassively back into her eyes until she looked away, her face flushing red below her eyes. She looked even more lovely when she blushed.

"Doesn't she have any other dresses?" I spoke to Eleonore as if Sera weren't present, ignoring it when her mouth parted, and she drew in a furious breath.

"No, I do _not_!" she spat, clenching her fists slightly.

"Have Merrill see that she gets some," I directed my obstinate reply again at Eleonore, then turned back to give Sera a sardonic look.

"The boy will need some new clothes as well. Especially a good pair of riding boots."


	10. Manners

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

_Sera_

I was furious with him for demanding that I get new dresses made, but Eleonore silenced me with a look. I clamped my mouth shut, glaring at him until he finally went back upstairs.

"That man!" I began furiously, but Eleonore cut me off, pointing discreetly toward the open balconies above me. I hoped he heard me when I said he had the manners of a goat.

She surprised me by agreeing, but ushered me back towards the kitchen before I could say anything else about him. I thought I heard a faint rumble of laughter from above us as I stalked through the dining room.

"I'll make my own dresses!" I said vehemently, but Eleonore was adamant that I would not have time.

"He will keep you very busy. Sometimes I think he sends me away, just so that he has something to do," she remarked humorlessly, "he can be very...trying at times."

"Has he ever hurt you?"

"Goodness, no! He's been nothing but a gentleman, although he does have a temper," she said reluctantly, "I am telling you now to stop provoking him."

I resisted telling her that I thought he was as far from a gentleman as he could get, and that the farm animals he had bought were better suited for his company.

My mouth has always gotten me into trouble. I earned it from my mother, and look where it got her. My stepfather kicked her teeth in one night, and now, if she was even still alive, she could no longer chew solid foods.

My early childhood had been free of violence. The most violent thing my parents ever did to me was lock me in my room for back talk. I am twenty five now, and know that I look far older than I really am. The day after our stepfather cut Peter's eye out, I took him and ran as far away from Paris as I could afford. I happened to end up in Lyon, and a year later ran into Bernard. I had only lived under the same roof as my stepfather for a year, but the scars that we both endured there will stay with us forever. Three years has not eased the nightmares for Peter, and my own pain began anew when I moved here. We both sleep with the light on at night. We are both terrified of the dark. Sometimes he still will crawl in bed beside me, quaking with fear in his dreams. I still often have to change the sheets after he awakes in the morning, and he is becoming reluctant to sleep in my bed anymore. As he grows older the embarrassment over his lack of control is consistent.

I won't let him stay with me the nights following Bernard's assaults. I prefer to remain alone as I cry myself to sleep, prefer to be alone when I wake up to the hideous feel of his fat sausage fingers pinching at me in my dreams. Not once since my father died has a man held me in tenderness and love. My father used to hug me fiercely each night before bed, and would sweep Peter up in his arms, tossing him toward the ceiling playfully. I cursed him for being so foolish as to die, leaving his family in debt, forcing my mother to marry the first man who asked.

Ipasted a smile on my face, something I was well practiced at for Peter.

"I will try my best," I promised, wondering if it would be more possible for me to stop a train.

* * *

"Sera, Sera!"

Peter was calling to me in his mischievous sing-song voice, and I suppressed a sigh. Eleonore had sent me home saying that she would call me back over when it was time for her to prepare supper. I dreaded another confrontation with Monsieur Gervais, and my anger had not yet vanished. I was insulted that he had told me to buy new clothes. I knew he was right. I looked dreadful in this old brown dress, but he shouldn't have commented on it. I would have gotten new things. Eventually. After Peter had been set to rights, I would have made as many gowns as I could afford, but Eleonore insisted that I go to see a dressmaker as soon as possible. I promised her I would do so on Monday, taking the name of someone she knew who had a shop.

"Did Monsieur Gervais tell you?" he asked breathlessly, his head bobbing side to side while his eye stayed on me. I reached over and wiped a bit of debris from his empty socket, brushing aside his hand when he tried to fend me off.

"I can do it myself," he said waspishly, then wiped it crudely with his sleeve.

"Tell me what?"

He looked at me in consternation, "He said I could be his stable boy. He didn't tell you?"

I shook my head, my anger mounting again. What right did he have to offer Peter such a position without consulting me first? Peter started to sulk at my expression.

"Won't you let me?" he asked childishly, his blue eye pleading.

I knew how much he loved horses, and how much he missed his pony from our life before. After our mother married it had been sold, along with everything else worth anything to pay off debts.

"What did Monsieur Gervais say?"

"He said I had to ask you first, but that I could clean stalls and feed, and even groom them sometimes. I have to take them out to the paddock after it gets built, and pick their feet..."

I interrupted his monologue, knowing that he could go on for an hour if I let him.

"He told you to ask me?"

He nodded eagerly, knowing I liked for him to ask my permission in all things, especially after he had stolen from his new employer.

"If Monsieur Gervais believes that you are capable, who am I to say that you are not?"

He threw his arms around my waist, giving a triumphant whoop. I hugged him back, knowing that it would be a long time before I received another. I smiled down at him, then ran my thumb over his scarred brow. He froze as I pressed a kiss there, then backed away when I released him. I had gone too far.

"Thanks Sera," he mumbled, then ran off towards the stable again.

I turned around and found myself staring at the man himself. He was watching me through hooded eyes, the mask on the right side of his face seeming to mock me. I felt breathless suddenly, looking into his shadowy green eyes and shuddered inwardly as he looked down at my dress.

I stepped aside so that he could pass, but he just followed me with those eyes, his body shifting so that I could only see the left side of his face. I felt inadequate standing next to him, he in his tailored clothes, every hair on his head perfect, even if it weren't his own. That was why I had stared earlier. I wanted to know if there was anything beneath, but he had caught me, and that had clearly pissed him off. I looked away from him when I caught myself looking at the wig again, wishing I could crawl under a rock and be hidden from his piercing eyes.

"Th...thank you for giving Peter a chance...," my voice came out thin and reedy. I cleared my throat roughly. "About the cottage..." I began, but stopped when he started glaring at me. He thought I was going to repeat my offer from before. I shook my head, "No. _No_. It's about the door. I...You...broke it."

His left eyebrow raised, and I imagined that the right one did as well, although it was impossible to tell with the mask covering it up.

"Thank you...for breaking it...but I would really like to have it closed again...please," I stuttered over each word, my breath hitching in my throat. I imagined Bernard's hand closing over my throat again, and his disgusting breath in my face. I closed my eyes at the image, and when I opened them he was still there. I blinked rapidly, until the only thing before me was the slightly concerned face of my new employer.

"Are you unwell?"

His voice was like silk gliding over my rough nerves. It was incredibly soothing, and I wished he would speak again.

"N..no," I whispered weakly, but I couldn't stop the tremor that passed through my body. I turned my face away from him, shielding my vulnerable expression from his prying eyes.

"I'll have a look at your door," he said smoothly, then gestured for me to proceed him, "If you please, Mademoiselle."

I felt his eyes on me the entire distance to my front door, and my face burned with shame when he looked around the cottage dismissively.

"Peter took them," I whispered.

"You should teach that boy what happens when people steal," he muttered, but his voice lacked conviction.

He crouched down and inspected the door jam, asking me if I had a hammer and some nails. A few well placed pounds later, and the door shut with ease. He closed it behind him, shutting us inside the room. He looked nearly as nervous as I felt, but he made no attempt to come closer to me, even as I backed away from him in apprehension.

"What happened to his eye?"


	11. Atlas

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

Sera's eyes were wide in the dark interior of the cottage. I leaned against the door, hoping that I indicated that I was here to talk, nothing more. She inched towards a door in the back of the room, her eyes darting around the inside of the house.

"I'm not going to hurt you," I muttered, but I refused to back away from this. I wanted to know who had abused that boy. He cringed even from her touch, and I would know right now why.

"Who hurt him?" I demanded again, slamming my fist against the door.

She jumped, startled by the sharp crack in the room.

"H..his stepfather, _our_ stepfather," she said nervously, wringing her hands together.

"The man who attacked you?"

"No. He was my...employer," she gave me an accusatory stare, as if all bosses were evil. She had no idea the depths of my depravity, but I would never hurt any woman that way.

"From the garment factory?"

She nodded, surprised that I knew where she had worked. I kept that information in my mind, imagining how terrified she must have been to endure such torture.

"Why was his eye removed?"

She shook her head at me, her mouth opening in a mute reply. I walked towards her impatiently, towering over her small body.

"Why!" I barked at her, causing her to jump away from me, her head knocking backwards against the wall.

Tears pooled in her eyes, and she stared vacantly at me, her head lolling on her shoulders.

"I would not lie," she mumbled.

I stared at her, trying to make sense of her words.

"I would not lie with him, so he cut out Peter's eye."

I stepped away from her quickly, turning my back so that we could both compose ourselves.

"I'm sorry," I said gruffly, "I didn't mean to frighten you."

She scoffed, "Yes you did. It seems to be a remarkable trait of yours."

Her words stung me, but I knew she was right. I did frighten people, and the ones who didn't cower from my appearance, I usually scared by being myself.

"I'm sorry," I said again, hoping I sounded sincere.

She was ignoring me, her face turned upwards to the ceiling of her house.

"I don't hurt women and children," I insisted, but she continued to avoid me.

I stared at her upturned face, wishing I was a normal man, that I could comfort her the way someone, anyone else would. I was a beast, unfit for conversation with most people, especially this damaged woman who stood trembling before me now.

"I stole your tomatoes last year," I confessed, blushing when she smirked. "You may keep the furniture. I don't want it," I offered, and she finally looked at me.

She smiled bitterly, "I was planning on it."

I knew she said it to annoy me, but it wouldn't work. I had already seen the disaster of their pathetic lives. I would have given her anything, if she had only asked for it.

Peter came crashing through the front door, halting when he saw me standing close to his sister. He looked at the two of us accusingly, glaring at Sera and giving me a look of fear.

"I fixed the door," I gritted out, feeling terribly uncomfortable.

I moved towards the door, stopping in front of him.

"I fixed the door," I repeated firmly, gesturing for him to inspect it.

He did, rubbing at his eye absentmindedly.

"Peter," Sera began, and she stopped when he sent her a hard look.

"I said I could do it myself," he huffed at her, then turned his back.

"You will show respect to your sister," I said softly, "if you want to work for me."

My words seemed to quell him, and he marched over to her, letting her inspect his eye. I imagined that working around hay and dust would be bothersome, and wondered why he didn't have a patch for it. I was too agitated to ask, worrying that he would ask me a question about my own mask.

They both turned back around to me, and suddenly I felt like an intruder. The boy was staring at my mask, the girl at my head, and I stumbled through the doorway into the yard, eager to be away from them.

Peter joined me in the barn later that day, his wiry arms barely able to lift one bale of hay to my two. I stopped him for a moment, telling him that if he had an eye patch he would have to wear it inside the barn. I didn't want his eye becoming infected with anything and causing more damage. Before he could make another comment, I told him that until he had proper footwear, his duties were suspended. I couldn't have a stable boy with crushed feet. He could begin on Monday afternoon, after he had been fitted for new clothes and boots. He ducked out of the stable, a resigned look on his face, trudging back to the cottage. He disappeared through a door in the back, slamming it shut behind him. Isuppressed a grin as I led the bay out of his stall, wondering whose henpecking he detested more. Mine, or his sister's.

I named him Atlas, for surely he carried an oppressive load of garbage on his sturdy shoulders. I loped him through a clearing in the woods on the other side of the canal, letting him have his head at times so I could work out steam. He was more level headed than Cesar had been, and his stride was enormous. I fell in love with him instantly, even if he had been pampered too much in his former home. He was sleek, gorgeous, and flowed beneath me as smooth as a rocking chair. Cesar had been a stallion, prone to fits, and even in the heat of a run I sometimes feared that he would pitch me. Atlas was perfect for my mood, not demanding that I pay him any attention, so long as I allowed him to run, and run, and run. He was an athlete, built for performance, and I was delighted to find he was more than willing to jump over anything in our path. I thought he was fantastic, and as I headed home I congratulated myself on finding such a horse. Sera was standing in her garden beside the barn when I approached, and I skirted around her, not bothering to say hello. I felt her eyes on me when I left the barn, going directly to the side entrance into the kitchen. Eleonore was inside slicing potatoes.

"Is that for supper?" I peeked over her shoulder, suddenly feeling quite hungry after my vigorous ride.

"Yes, now shoo," she instructed.

I looked at her, puzzled. I always stood in here with her while she cooked.

"You'll only frighten her, now go away," she swatted my shoulder, leaving a powdery substance from the raw potatoes on me, "Oh bother," she muttered, reaching for a towel to wipe away the gray-white residue.

"It's nothing," I said, but she rubbed at it anyway. "Is she coming over?"

Eleonore nodded, her lips twisting into a grimace.

"I'm afraid you two aren't going to get along as I had hoped," she murmured.

I started to tell her that's because she was mule headed, but stopped. I didn't want her to feel any guiltier for leaving.

"We'll be fine as long as you give her your recipe for peach cobbler," I teased, thrilled that I could make her smile.

Sera entered then, juggling some onions and squash in her arms.

"Oh, Erik, would you help her please. I've already ruined your clothes."

I didn't say that there wasn't anything that could ruin that dress. Sera's eyes narrowed threateningly, daring me to comment. I took the onions from her stiff fingers, allowing her to move the squash that was pressed to her torso. She leaned against the counter to empty the contents of her arms, brushing the sticky residue of the squash from her fingers.

"These came from your garden?"

"I have too much," she shrugged carelessly, "I don't eat it, and Peter can only eat so much. I don't want to have to put it up, or throw it away. Eleonore said you liked it," she met my narrowed stare head on, "you'd be doing me a favor, really."

She turned around, plucking a knife from the carving block and began to slice them up. My mouth started watering at the sight of something so fresh, and Eleonore caught me salivating. She shook her head ruefully at me, muttering about my pride. I leaned against the opposite counter, watching them both work. I didn't feel threatened with their backs to me, but I knew that when Eleonore was gone that I wouldn't be coming in here before supper anymore.

When I found myself studying the differences in their feet I left. Sera's feet were bare, her slim feet covered in a fine layer of dirt that led up to incredibly trim ankles. I stopped looking at Eleonore's immediately, wondering what was beneath the rest of the dress. I could see the back of a slim calf, pale and smooth as she reached up to grab something above her head. The dress had inched up precariously, almost to her knee and I bolted out of the room.

I heard Elenore's startled exclamation, but I kept going until I reached my room. I emerged ten minutes later, feeling only slightly calmer. I had no business looking at Sera that way. Even if I could still hear her troubled offer in my ears. Even if the sight of her in a disgustingly ugly brown dress could send my blood racing madly, like Atlas' hooves thundering on my heart, and earthquakes shattering in my ears.


	12. Wanting

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

Thankfully Sera had gone home by the time I went back downstairs, leaving Eleonore alone to serve my food. I enjoyed a heaping plate of potatoes, squash, and onions, as well as some slow roasted pork. I told Eleonore to please send the rest over to the cottage next door, and she could take some for her son as well.

"Sara will clean out my cottage after I leave," she said nervously, "I hope thats okay."

She was holding something behind her back, her shoulders stretching out to hide it from me.

"Whatever you like," I said, glancing down at her hands.

She pulled out what looked like a newspaper from behind her back.

"Monsieur Merrill left this for you. He said there is something you need to read in here."

I felt my heart slow down as I reached for it. It was an edition of the Epoque, dated three weeks ago. I scanned the front page quickly, then felt the blood drain away from my face as the words at the bottom leaped out at me.

_'Vicomtesse Christine de Chagny to publish her private journals'._

It went on to say that they would include her most private moments, most notably her time in the Opera Populaire. They hinted at the scandalous romance between me and her, and I nearly laughed. There had been no romance involved, at least for her part. They would be published in accordance to the grand reopening of the theater, which was three months away.

"What is it Erik?" Eleonore reached out to touch my hand.

Numbly I showed her the paper, hardly caring now that she was leaving if she knew about me. She looked incredulous as she made the connection between me and the man the papers called a hideous beast, with an insatiable appetite for death and destruction.

"That was you?" she asked, sounding small and uncertain.

I couldn't look her in the eyes as I nodded. Now she knew. I was exposed again, although my mask remained. The scars she was witnessing now were deeper and uglier. They were the ones on my soul, firmly warping my heart as a demon, a monster.

"Erik, how could you do such a thing?"

I heard the disappointment in her voice, and it knifed me to the core. I didn't want to tell her, but I also couldn't stand for her to look at me that way.

"Eleonore, I was born this way," I rasped, gesturing to my face, "my own mother wouldn't touch me, and all my life I have been shunned. Because of this!"

I turned away from her as I removed the mask, slamming it into the dining room table. It buckled beneath the force of my hand, but didn't break. I sensed her waiting for me to turn, but I couldn't. I couldn't show her what I really was. I put the mask back on, wishing I could tear my horrid flesh away and reveal the man beneath.

"I just wanted her to love me," I whispered, tears spilling across my eyelids, "I just want _someone_ to love me."

I hated myself for being weak, for breaking under the motherly spell she put me under. I was nothing to her. I brushed her hand aside when she reached out to touch my arm. Gulping back the sobs inside my raw throat, I turned around to face her.

"If you tell them where I am, they will come to execute me."

I didn't warn her not to. I almost left it as an invitation. If they came, I wouldn't have to worry anymore. I wouldn't have to live with the hope that someday a woman would look at me with desire and happiness. I wouldn't be able to dream of a loving wife, and a blessed child, something most men take for granted. If God had seen fit to send me such a gift, I would have cherished it until I drew my last breath, but I didn't believe that He would. I know what I deserve, and it is not to die a happy man.

* * *

I left Eleonore in the dining room, my plans for a cheerful farewell ruined. I cursed Merrill for being a coward, leaving a defenseless old woman to do his dirty work for him. He should have told me about the paper himself this morning, instead of slinking off like a yellow belly. I wondered what I should do about Christine. She thought I was dead, but still, she had promised to forget me. I had made her swear that she would keep my secrets, and even in my 'death' she would betray me. I tried to tell myself that I didn't care, but as the night grew darker, the more furious I became.

I imagined wrapping my hands around Raoul de Chagny's throat, squeezing until his blue eyes bulged from their sockets, and his tongue swelled inside his mouth. I almost killed Christine in my mind, and at the last second I crushed her to me, sobbing, asking for forgiveness. More than anything though, I wanted to know what was inside the journals. For so long I had tried to pry into Christine's mind and I had failed.

She was always distant, detached from the world. I think that was why I found her so easy to manipulate. I knew that the conversations I had with her in my dark bedroom were as far away from reality as possible. Christine would never have whispered those intimate things to me, and I doubted she even had the conviction to repeat them to her husband. She was still child-like in many ways, and I had used it ruthlessly to my advantage.

She could also be petulant and cold when it suited her, acting as much like a little girl as any of the youngest ballerinas in the theater, even when she was half grown. Still, I wanted to know what she had written about me. Short of stealing the journals, which was no doubt by now too late, I had no choice but to let her continue. I would not reveal myself as alive to that witch, allowing her to draw me back into her snare. I would never return to Paris, not even to salvage my pride.

As I played my violin that night, I remembered the notes to the one song that I had dedicated to her. If this song was what she considered my romance of her then I wondered why she had ever bothered promising to come back. I had felt the notes and words to the core. It had been a plea to her to love me, to return to me. Yet still, I know that she had felt nothing. It must have been fear that made her return. It was always fear with me, and I wondered if I could change. If I could let go of the past, maybe I could live the rest of my life in peace. If I could give up the ghost that had died inside the Opera Populaire, maybe I wasn't too late for redemption.

I cursed myself for being a fool, tossing my violin onto the bed. I extinguished the lamp on the desk and stood at my window looking out onto the moonlit lawn. Several moments passed before I saw the two figures huddling beneath my window, holding each other close to ward off the chill of the night air. I wondered how manyoften they had sat out there, listening to me play. Instead of being angry, I felt touched.

_They were listening to me_.

_She_ was listening.


	13. Dream Lover

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

_Sera_

I had violent dreams last night, not of terror and fear, but of passion and romance. Monsieur Gervais had touched me deeply with his music, and for once I saw behind the cold and stern man that I would be working for. He had gone out of his way to help us countless times, saving me from Bernard, comforting Peter, and providing us with wood through the winter, yet I had never seen him as anything other than stoic or angry.

Tears had welled in my eyes as I listened to his music. It haunted me long after the last note slid across the strings, and afterwards I had felt as if he recognized my presence there. I couldn't explain it, but after years of constantly watching my back, I could tell when someone was looking at me.

I knew that he must be a deeply wounded man, having to hide half his face behind a mask. The other half was hidden by indifference, but through his music I was able to see how much passion and power he repressed.

My dreams were obscure writhing images, cloaked in red and black, dancing and grinding to erotic music. I woke up sweating, scrambling into the kitchen for water to douse my face with. I sat at the table in the dark, my face scarlet and my body on fire. I didn't bother going back to sleep. Bernard's hands had not driven me from my bed. I had imagined Monsieur Gervais, and he had made my blood boil. I had never felt passion and desire for a man before, and it truly was frightening, especially considering my circumstances. I wondered how I could feel this way abouta man that I despised. I truly thought he was an arrogant and selfish bastard, uncaring and unmannerly. Yet when he spoke to me, each word whispered was like a rough caress against my flesh. Even when he was angry his voice reached out to me, full of passion and fire, yet restrained enough that I knew he would not strike me. He had already made it clear that there was nothing else I could do for him, and I am grateful.

Strange dreams or not, I'm not sure if I can bear a man's touch. The mask has nothing to do with my decision. I was ruined for pleasure long before I ever met Erik Gervais.

I dressed before dawn, crossing over to the chateau. I was surprised when I found Monsieur Gervais already seated at the table. He was staring somberly at a newspaper, impossible to read in the darkness. He looked up when I lit a candle, our eyes meeting briefly in the faint glow.

Blushing to my hairline I was able to ask if he would care for breakfast.

"Yes, please," the words were hollow, and I knew that he was not interested in food.

I made some crepes, adding some canned apples that I had put up for the winter. I didn't really like sweets all that much, but with the fruit trees already in my yard when I moved in I had taken advantage. There were times when it was all we had, much to Peter's delight.

I fixed his tea, adding cream the way Eleonore had shown me, carrying it all to him on a serving tray. He grunted at me when I asked if there was anything else he needed, so I retreated to the kitchen, nibbling absently on a spare crepe. I tucked one away for Peter, knowing he had probably already fixed his own breakfast. Me working in the factory had made him grow up fast. The first few months I had been terrified, but he amused himself indoors for the most part. For awhile we had a neighbor living in one of the already torn down cottages, but I suspected that she had been there for the same reasons I was. I guess I was her replacement, because six months after I moved in she had left. Bernard had started his not so subtle demands then, knowing that I was trapped alone with a small boy. He threatened to remove his other eye if I did not cooperate. I learned my lesson once from refusing a man, and swore that Peter would never again suffer for my mistakes.

I turned around in surprise when I heard him behind me. He was carrying his half empty plate and the tea cup.

"You should let me do that," I admonished, taking them from him. His arms hung limply at his sides, his fingers clenching slightly, his eyes looking towards my feet.

"Monsieur?"

He looked troubled, his face drawn and tight. I wondered if he had gotten anymore sleep than I had.

"Eleonore's leaving today."

I felt my heart soften, just a little, at his forlorn statement. He looked lost and lonely.

"You could visit her," I offered, hoping to cheer him upa little.

"I'll never go back to Paris."

I wondered if that was where he had come from. If he had needed to escape from there as much as I had. I would never return there myself.

"She can visit you then," I replied, smiling slightly.

His eyes lifted briefly, the faint morning light shining into them, making them seem greener.

"Yeah," he said gruffly, his arms crossing over his chest. He peered over my shoulder out the window and I took the chance to observe him openly while he was distracted. His false hair curled in a wave just above his neck, the white half mask beautiful, yet not entirely blank of expression. The sculpted brow arched dramatically over his eye, the space between seemingly in a permanent frown. The mask only covered half of his nose, then slipped down to almost cover part of his upper lip. His own jaw could be seen quite clearly beneath the curving line at the edge. It was strong and looked rough with stubble. His white shirt was open at the neck, revealing tanned skin and a dark whorl of hair on his chest. I looked away before he caught me staring, unable to hide the again rising crimson stain that seemed to always occupy my face when I thought of him. After my dream last night I hadn't been certain I could look him in the eyes.

I turned around to see what he was looking at, and saw Peter walking a little chestnut mare around, letting her graze occasionally before he would tug her off in another direction.

"I'd like to let him ride her, if that's okay with you."

I turned around and found him watching me.

"She's gentle enough?"

"I rode her home. She seems to be, although accidents do happen."

"I don't care for horses, but Peter loves them. He used to have one...before..."

I looked away from him, thinking that I could work here forever if he continued to be so generous.

"Thank you, Monsieur Gervais. Peter will be thrilled," I said softly, wishing I could keep the emotion from my voice when I spoke to him. It came out sounding as if I were about to breakdown, which I was.

He looked terrified that I might cry in front of him and backed out of the kitchen slowly.

"It's nothing," he said under his breath before turning away.

He was wrong. It meant more to Peter and I than he would ever know. He gave my brother back something stable, a companion and friend that he could talk to. He gave me peace, that my brother had something to call his own, even if it were borrowed.

* * *

Eleonore's son sat impatiently in the carriage, looking at his mother with a mulish expression. He wasn't nearly as benevolent as his mother, and I looked up towards the house to see if Monsieur Gervais would be coming down. I gave her an apologetic look, and made her promise to wait for another couple of minutes.

I ran into the house, up three flights of stairs to his chamber, halting when I heard him playing the violin.

I rapped on the door and heard the music halt abruptly. He opened the door, his face falling when he saw who it was.

"If you don't hurry you'll miss her."

He glanced beyond me into the hallway before scowling.

"I don't need it," he muttered.

I gaped at him, wondering where the caring man from earlier had disappeared to.

"That's very selfish of you. Eleonore cares for you a great deal. You should be grateful that someone thinks so highly of you, especially when you have the manners of a horse's ass!"

His eyes grew mutinous before me, his mouth tightening in fury. He pressed his face so close to mine that I could feel his warm breath against my skin.

"You know nothing! No one cares for me!" he shouted, towering over me. His hands reached out to grip the frame, neatly encasing me inside his arms. I could step back into the open hallway at any time and escape him, but I didn't want to.

"She speaks of you more often than she does her own son! If that doesn't tell you something, you are more dense than I figured you."

I waited tensely for him to say something, anything. His breathing was labored against my skin, he stepped closer to me, his face moving even closer to mine.

"Get out of here, Sera. _Now_."

As soon as I backed away he shut the door in my face. I walked back downstairs on unsteady legs, my heart racing as his voice whispered my name over and over again. By the time I made it out the front door Peter was standing alone in the front yard, watching as the carriage rolled down the street. Somehow I made it back inside to prepare his lunch, leaving it on the table for three hours until I realized he had no intention of making it back down. He left the house afterwards, taking the bay gelding across the street towards Lyon. He had a black cloak pulled around his body, covering his head and face effectively and draping over the flanks of the big horse. I left him a plate on the kitchen table, promising myself that I would return to clear it first thing in the morning. For now I had to get out of his house. I felt like he was everywhere around me, watching me, whispering my name again.

As soon as my head hit the pillow I was back in his embrace, him leading me into his room, seducing me with music and gentle caresses. I laid beneath him willingly, waiting expectantly for his lips to meet mine. Nothing came, and I opened my eyes, crying out into the dark and empty room. I swore I heard my name again when I finally drifted back off to sleep, and followed the voice back into the darkness, where the promise of passion again could claim me.


	14. Just Kill Me Now

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

If I had slept the night before, there is no doubt that I would have remained awake for this night as well. Exhausted beyond reason I rode Atlas home, feeling guilty for making him miss dinner hours ago. I had tried to drive away all thoughts of the two women in my life who were making me insane. I cursed them both, for getting me wound up. For offering something as benign as conversation and the promise of friendship, then cruelly yanking it away. I was seriously considering leaving Charpennes. The peace that I had found here had vanished. What Sera and Eleonore had not taken away, Christine had managed to finish with her bloody journals. I prayed that I was not mentioned, and in the same breath hoped that I was. Once we were near Chauvin, Atlas picked up the pace, passing Eleonore's vacant cottage, and Sera and Peter's. The lights were still on inside, and I wondered what they would be doing up this late.

I fed both of the horses, cautiously giving the mare some in case Peter had defied my orders and fed her already. I suspected that he had, but she was content with her small portion, so I left the horses to their meal and went in search of mine.

Sera had left a plate of thinly sliced beef roast, with a side of string beans and potatoes. She was actually a very good cook, but the coldness of the meal prevented me from finishing it. I didn't expect her to wait up for me to serve me my meals. I wouldn't have asked it of Eleonore in a thousand years, but I was blaming Sera on my black mood anyway, so I sulked about for an hour, trying to come up with a good enough reason to dismiss her.

Finding none, other than the fact that she was irritatingly accurate, I wearily climbed the stairs to my room. I crawled on the bed fully clothed, staring up at the black canopy drapes. Instead of Christine that night ripping my mask away, I saw Sera.

* * *

I woke up in a rotten mood. That was the only excuse for the temper I had. I snapped at Sera when she served my breakfast, I yelled at her for taking too long with my tea. 

"Are you getting the dresses today?" I asked caustically, staring at her brown dress with cruel intensity.

"Yes," she muttered, throwing the silverware onto the tray to remove it from in front of me.

"Good," I said snidely, pushing my chair back abruptly, "you look hideous in that color."

I actually heard her jaws pop from the force with which she opened them. I looked up to see her placing her palms on the table, bracing her weight on them as she leaned over to glower at me. She looked ready to take a swing at me as she whispered cruel words to me.

"_You're_ telling _me_ about appearances?"

It was a cheap shot and I knew it, but it still hurt like hell. I laughed bitterly, trying to think of something sufficient to say, but she snatched the tray from the table and stormed into the kitchen. I heard her throw it onto the counter and slam out the back door.

I deserved it, I told myself. After what I had said to her, knowing that what she wore didn't matter to me and still needling her about it I deserved whatever she could say about me. I wanted to push her away.

Last night I had been so close to her eyes that I knew I would never get them out of my mind. Dazzlingly green eyes, not pale like mine, but a dark mossy colored green had stared unflinchingly into mine as she shouted back at me. No one has ever shouted at me before. Not since I was a child anyway. Her eyes had a darker green, almost black ring around the outside, and the inner rings were flecked in the softest shade of gold. Thick dark lashes framed the almond shaped lids, and I memorized each line around her eyes, as well as the small freckle near the trailing end of her right eyebrow.

She was still so very thin, and I stopped short of ordering her to eat, although I was still considering it. She was picked up by Merrill later on that morning in a hack, and her and Peter left with him, leaving me alone in the house. I walked down to the second floor and went into the music room. I didn't care for this room much, but it was the best location for the organ that had been delivered. I hadn't bothered to touch it since it arrived, and set to work on tuning it, needing something mechanical to fill my mind. It wasn't nearly as nice as the one that I had before, but after I adjusted it to my liking, the sounds that came from it were satisfying.

I didn't see them when they returned, and decided that I would let her leave supper out for me again. This time I wouldn't let it get so cold before I went to eat. I played the organ right up through supper, knowing that the sounds would permeate through the house. I played my favorite piece, hoping it sounded obnoxious to her ears and that she hated it. It was from the last part of _Don Juan_, the act that never was performed because of the fire. I think if it had been performed, Christine's reputation might have been ruined. The Vicomte most certainly wouldn't have married her if he had heard the words that I sang loudly now, words that I had written during a period of such blackness and lust that I had been unable to sleep or think straight. I was angry as I played, forgetting all about the passion and nervousness that I had felt that night. I hoped Christine could hear me all the way in Paris, and that she was quivering in fear from the vehement song that I was playing.

* * *

I sat at the table, trying to suppress the dregs of guilt that were fighting to the surface. The anger that I had carried around the last two days had drained me, leaving me feeling like the empty aching shell that I had been as the Phantom. I felt hollow and dead inside, except this time I felt ashamed of myself for turning back into what I had only days ago promised myself that I wouldn't. I wished that I could take back what I had said to Sera, and say everything that I had meant to say to Eleonore. 

I needed something to occupy my time, something to keep me out of Sera's way, and to stave off the growing depression that I could feel coming on. I didn't want to descend into the oppressive mood swings that had been present for most of my life. I didn't want to dwell on the past, on my mistakes and failures. I would rather not remember the reason I must hide behind the mask, concealing the horrid beast beneath. I have always wanted control over mirrors in my life, and here I have removed them all except the one inside my bathroom. I don't want to look at myself, but I know that I can't hide forever. Every morning I must wake up and groom the Phantom. I have to cover the parts of myself that the world would beg me not to show them.

I can hear Sera inside the kitchen now, and I cannot quell the fear inside me that I must face her again. My heart feels like a frozen mass inside me, waiting for her to enter and finish me off with one of her equally cold looks. The door opens before me, and my mouth runs dry.

I had forgotten about the new dresses.

* * *

Okay, I'm sorry I didn't update today...I've been a busy little bee. I watched Attila today...MMMMM...

Anyway, I know these chapters are relatively short, but since I'm updating often I think it's okay...isn't it? Please keep up the wonderful reviews, and I'm planning on getting up bright and early and writing at least three more...don't hold me to it though.

Attila...MMMMMMMMMM...Gerry...MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM...

* * *


	15. Wicked

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

* * *

Hey, I woke up early (sixish)! My only ambition these days is to make it to the gym by noon. Ahhh...the life of a recent college graduate... I know it won't last forever. By the way, do you like my titles? Especially Chapter 14. I really liked that one.

* * *

_Sera_

I held my breath as I served his breakfast, not meeting his eyes, and not speaking a word. I expected to be dismissed today for my insolence and cruelty, but he remained silent. I would leave without a protest if he ordered me, or even asked politely, but he refused to even acknowledge that I existed. I had felt his eyes on me when I first entered, and wondered if he approved of my new dress.

Yesterday had been like Christmas for Peter and I. Merrill had assured me that we wouldn't break him if we spent his money, but it had felt like stealing. Surely something so luxurious and exhilarating as buying new clothing was only for the people who deserved it. Peter perhaps did. I did not. Not after what I had said to him. I had sat in my kitchen for the rest of the morning, sniffling back tears that I couldn't bring myself to shed. I didn't deserve an outlet for my pain. I had uttered such filth from my own mouth, and undoubtedly hurt a good man.

Even if he was selfish and arrogant, he was also generous to a fault. I knew I could never repay him for everything he had done for me, and that I didn't deserve his forgiveness, but that wouldn't stop me from asking.

Yesterday I had been ready to give in, almost ready to go back to the factory and take whatever it was Bernard had in store for me. If Merrill had shown up, I probably would have. I hadn't been indebted to him then, even if I was staying in his cottage. I would have moved somewhere else, anywhere else to be away from him and his music. God, that music! When Merrill had arrived, and I seen the look in Peter's eyes, then looked down at his ragged feet I had caved. I would take whatever Monsieur Gervais intended to give me, no matter what it cost my pride. If he wanted to shout at me everyday, so be it. If he wanted to tell me how unbearably ugly I was, I would take it.

Buying the dresses had given me some satisfaction, although the rest of them wouldn't be ready for at least two weeks. The lady had been able to alter the one I wore today, murmuring that I wasn't fit for such elegance. I had silently agreed. The deep camellia gown cut narrowly at my waist, then fell in rustling elegantly bustled skirts. The gown was not meant for a housekeeper, but I could not tolerate the brown sack-like garment that I had been wearing for the last two years any longer. I protected my new jewel with Eleonore's faded apron, knowing it looked ridiculous, but feeling slightly more comfortable in it than stepping out here with him pretending to be beautiful and glamorous.

I had shorn off some of my hair yesterday, cutting away the dead ends until it had regained some of its buoyancy. I washed it with new rose scented soap, and soaked it in calendula before rewashing it. I almost cried at the feel of my own silky hair falling softly around my face. I braided and coiled it around my head, cursing myself for not having enough pins to tame the stray curls around the fringe. Altogether I was satisfied with the style, although Peter had taken one good look at me this morning and burst into laughter. I didn't mind. The more I could make that little boy laugh, the happier I became as well.

I had been studying the front lawn from the large windows inside the dining room for some time before I heard his utensil clatter to the table and his chair push back. By the time I turned around he was already striding out the door into the main hall.

"Monsieur Gervais," I rushed out after him before I could change my mind.

He stopped but didn't turn around. I waited for him to speak, but when it seemed that he wouldn't I continued.

"I wish to apologize for my behavior yesterday," I said, hoping he would keep his back to me, "I realize that we have not gotten along, and I hope you can forgive me for what I said."

His hands clenched at his sides, and I imagined that his face was taut with anger. However, when he finally turned to look at me, it was with wariness and great reluctance.

"I didn't mean it," I barely whispered the words, glancing away from him, "I don't find you unattractive. I think you are a very striking and distinguished gentleman. Please forgive me for being so callous."

"Are you _mocking_ me, Mademoiselle?" he ground out, his voice low and deadly.

My eyes shot to his, dread seeping through me as I met his vicious stare. I didn't want another fight with him, truly I didn't.

"No." I said hoarsely, "No, I meant every word."

"I pray that you were not _complimenting_ me."

"I suppose I was," I said softly, hoping he would just accept it and go away.

He moved toward me swiftly and I closed my eyes waiting for him to strike me. The blow never came, but I could feel him breathing against my face. I opened my eyes and found them looking directly at his neck, my head barely grazing his chin. He reached out and grasped my upper arms, bending me backwards so that I had to look at him.

"_Listen_ to me," he whispered, "I am not a man you should _ever _compliment. You don't want to know what happens to little girls that show the _Angel of Music_ affection. I am a terrifying monster, Mademoiselle. Don't ever say anything like that to me _ever_ again. I wasn't going to fire you. Rest easy, Mademoiselle, you don't have to pay me for your basic needs."

When it seemed he would have released me he didn't. Where I should have felt terror at his proximity, I felt something else, something foreign to me that I had only felt in my dreams from the past few nights. I couldn't tear my eyes away from his face, so close to mine that the mask seemed to throw my gaze off balance, making me want to look down instead of into his intense eyes. My gaze centered onto his mouth, partly hidden by the swooping curve at the edge of the mask. My heart was racing as I reached up to touch it.

He flinched from me, but didn't pull away entirely. His mouth was soft on my thumb in comparison to the sharp scrape of his beard that the rest of my fingers touched.

"No, Sera," he whispered roughly.

My name from those lips was too much. I moved my head marginally, pressing my mouth to his, my lips barely closing over him. He felt hard and unyielding as he gripped me tighter, but he didn't kiss me back.

Not at first.

The sensation was too pleasurable, the taste too exotic for me to stop. I had been kissed by men, forceful and bruisingly, often times until my mouth bled from my own teeth cutting into my flesh. Oddly I felt in control here, as if I was leading him onto the dangerous path of intimacy and sensuality. I touched my tongue to his lips experimentally, amazed that something I had thought of as disgusting could be so fantastic.

My eyes popped open as he made an animalistic noise. His were closed, and I was shocked to find that some of the dampness I felt between our joined mouths was from his tears. I brushed them away from the left side of his face wonderingly. I've never seen a man cry before. It is truly heartbreaking.

I broke away from him suddenly, my breathing ragged and uneven.

"Why?" he asked softly, traces of anger in the simple word.

What could I say? That I was compelled by him, that I had been having wicked dreams?

"I'm not a trollop," I managed to whisper.

He looked at me in surprise, "I never said you were."

I bowed my head, ashamed of my past, of my actions. I hated myself for being so impulsive. He cupped my chin in his warm hand, bringing my face back up to his. He kissed me briefly, a soft whisper against my mouth that left me aching for something more.

"Forget this ever happened," he whispered huskily, then released me altogether from his embrace.

I stared after his retreating back, knowing that for as long as I lived I could never obey that command.


	16. A Wise Phantom

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

_Sera_

My body trembled from unfulfilled desire, and I took no pleasure in my duties for him that morning. Touching the plate and fork he had eaten with, holding the cup where his lips had touched. I could see him outside in the half constructed paddock, showing Peter something on the little mare. He helped him up into the saddle, adjusting the stirrups and reins until he was satisfied. I watched the way his clothing moved over his body, the dark overcoat rising each time he lifted his arms, the sleeves of his white undershirt poking out occasionally. He mounted his own horse and they rode off towards the woods together, Peter talking animatedly the entire time.

I muttered as I put the dishes away, deciding I had better go see what needed tending in his room before he returned. Each step closer to his room had my heart pounding harder. I don't think it was the exertion from the stairs, but I hoped that I could soon blissfully ignore it. As I opened the door I was assaulted by the scent of him. The devil who had stood so close to me earlier this morning was present everywhere in this room. I picked up a cape that was lying carelessly on the floor. I hung it up in the armoire, my fingers inspecting his other clothing inside. He didn't seem to possess anything other than black, or otherwise very dark colors. I gathered up several articles of clothing strewn across the floor, my eyes constantly darting towards the open doorway, expecting him to leap out at me any moment. I wiped the bathroom down with a damp towel, wiping away bits of soap residue inside the large bathtub. I couldn't help but blush as a low ache settled inside my stomach. I glanced at myself in the mirror, finding a stranger staring back. My lips were swollen, the area around my mouth reddened from the soft scrape of his beard. Even my eyes were abysmally dark, shrouded in still and ever present desire.

I looked away from my wicked reflection, gathering up the rest of his clothing that needed washing. On my way out I paused beside the cabinet, wondering if I had the nerve to peak inside. With a guilty glance towards the door I opened it, peering inside at the display of black hair. I wondered how I would know if they needed cleansing. I touched each one, finding the same texture throughout the hair, then ran my fingers on the inside of the hairlines. I tossed my bundle out into his room so that I could examine them more closely. One of them felt slightly slick to my fingers. I guessed that they must become unbearably hot, especially in the warmer months. I imagined that he sweated a great deal , he was a man after all. The rest of them felt fine, so I left them alone for now. I would return for them some other day, and could only hope he didn't have a favorite.

I glanced around his room again, seeing if anything else needed my attention. He made his own bed, I saw with a slight smile. The violin was lying across the desk, and beneath it were mounds of paper. I stepped closer to see if any of it were trash.

Most of it was sheet music, but folded on top was a newspaper. I picked it up, not only because it was from Paris, but because it was folded so that one of the headlines stood out. I read through the article in disbelief, and the beginning of terror entered my veins.

It couldn't be him. Not the gentle man that I knew. No matter how unkind his words could be, he couldn't be the brutal monster the paper was describing. I replaced it exactly as I found it, my mind racing miles ahead as I gathered up his clothing and left the room. It wasn't until later that I would think about Christine de Chagny, and wonder with jealousy exactly what had happened during that week of her life she disappeared, and the night that the theater had caught on fire.

For now all I could think about was my father, and the way he had looked after he had quit the Opera Populaire.

Arin Tremaine, my father, was a superstitious man. He couldn't hold a job for any length of time, although amazingly he was steadily employed. He just couldn't maintain the same one consistently. One week he would work at the docks of the Seine, the next he would be at another shipyard, then maybe onto some factory work. He pissed away most of what he earned on wine, but he gave my mother the rest, which she managed the best she could. Another one of the jobs he would seek out was a stagehand in the various theaters around the city. The job at the Opera Populaire had not lasted long at all.

Six years ago my father had been alive. It seemed like such a relatively longer time span, given all that had transpired since then. Nineteen at the time, and kept under the strict and watchful eye of my mother, I doted on my father. He had missed work at the Aida Theater for three days in a row, so decided to try out the Opera Populaire. He ignored our teasing at home that the Opera Ghost would keep him in line, although knowing how caught up he could get in a good yarn, I know he must have secretly been afraid. For a big man, he was impossibly fearful.

He came home the first night telling us stories about the Opera Ghost, that he made demands on the managers, and frightened the ballet corps. I thought it was amusing tale, and he had as well. I think he thought it was a ploy to keep the ticket sales up. He told us that 'O.G.', or the 'Phantom' was incredibly ugly, with a gaping hole where his nose would be, and rotting flesh. He supposedly smelled like death. Thinking back to my encounter with Monsieur Gervais, if he was indeed the gentleman in question, I knew the rumor was false.

He seduced the ballet girls, often times making them live, 'the fate worse than death', and had played pranks on the entire theater, dropping props, stealing things, making them perform only what he wanted to hear. Then there was his salary. Twenty thousand francs a month, to be delivered to Box Five via Madame Giry, the director of the ballet corps.

The second night my father came home, he was shaking and white faced. Tears threatened to spill from his eyes as he told us in a haze of terror and alcohol induced blabbering that the Opera Ghost had told the managers he was to be fired. He wouldn't tolerate laziness in his theater, or trips inside the cellars for nips of wine. Father quit before the managers could fire him, saying that he had felt the cold hands of the Phantom as he sat on a crate of wine bottles, enjoying a respite from the annoying rehearsals above ground. He said that they brushed against his neck, and a voice whispered that he shouldn't be stealing from the Phantom, that he shouldn't be drinking on the job.

If only he had heeded the Phantom's words, perhaps he would still be alive. Three months after he quit the Opera Populaire he fell from scaffolding while doing carpentry work. The men around him said that he had been drinking quite heavily during his break.


	17. Or Not So Smart After All

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

Even riding with Peter I couldn't stop thinking about her. I murmured absent words of encouragement to the boy, hoping I sounded sincere as I thought about sticking my tongue back down Sera's throat. I had no idea why she would kiss me, but God I was grateful that she had. Grateful and regretful all in one breath. Kissing her had been the path to heaven, all lined in sunshine and sweet perfume. Kissing her had also been the slippery path back down to my own personal Hell, one which I wasn't sure I wished to resurrect. She had tasted so sweet, so fresh, and I felt that she did it of her own accord. She hadn't kissed me out of pity, no, but I wasn't sure what had driven her to it. I didn't dare believe in anything beyond what it was. A simple kiss, although I had much trouble convincing even myself of that. A simple kiss, and nothing more.

"Monsieur Gervais?" Peter asked, reaching down to pat the mare's neck.

He looked very different in clean clothing and boots. Someone had trimmed his hair, making him look even younger and thinner than he had before. He was wearing a black leather eye patch, although he kept constantly removing it to rub at his eye. I had given him a clean linen handkerchief, instructing him that a gentleman would not use his hand or sleeve. He'd given me a doubtful look, but managed to comply at least every other time that he rubbed it.

"Yes, Peter?"

"Did you attend a private school when you were a boy?" he asked politely, still petting his mare. He had named her Sunshine, which had more to do with her disposition than anything, I'm sure.

"No. I had a private tutor for awhile though. By the time I was your age I had stopped instruction," I replied.

"Why?"

I looked at him, wondering how I could explain a strange past filled with gypsies and side shows. When I was his age, I'd been lying in a coffin, speaking to a crowd through a flower. When I was only a year older, I had committed my first murder, although it was the only one I will not regret.

"I outgrew my instructor," I said briefly.

He was silent for awhile, and I caught him looking at me out of the corner of his eye. He couldn't see the mask, but I knew he was wondering if I had worn it when I was his age.

"Do you have need of instruction?" I asked suddenly.

"I can't do numbers," he lamented, as if that were the most terrible thing in the world.

"But you can read?" I prompted.

He nodded his head proudly, telling me how Sera had made him practice every night for the last two years when she discovered he couldn't read. She made him read boring things, such as Oliver Twist and Aesop's Fables. Sometimes she even acted out a play with him, and I smiled thinking of Sera in the role of Cleopatra.

"If your sister approves, I can teach you a few basic exercises. Unless you prefer to attend school?"

His hand reached up to touch his blank eye, and he shook his head vigorously. I knew that he, like me, preferred not to be touched. Well, that wasn't entirely true. I craved a woman's touch. I had for many, many years now. But I was a man, with a man's needs. No matter how hard I tried to ignore that part of my life, the part that I had never explored, it was always there. Like an unwelcome reminder each morning, I was constantly faced with a very troubling dilemma. Lately it had gotten worse. Much, _much_ worse.

I grew uncomfortable even now in the saddle, and was sure that my face was flushing. I began to get embarrassed, and finally steered Atlas back towards the canal.

"Can you make it back from here?" I asked roughly.

He sent me a reproachful look and kicked his mare across the steep ditch. I watched from the opposite side of the canal as he led her into the barn, then emerged several moments later to run into the house. I turned Atlas back around, wishing that I could get the image of Sera out of my mind.

I rode for what seemed like hours, my mind constantly going over what she had said to me, how she had not found me unattractive. She said I was striking and distinguished, and a gentleman to boot. I shuddered inside, hoping she never knew the truth about me. I felt fraudulent sitting in that fine estate, having her serve me meals while I played nice with her little brother. I didn't deserve to live a normal life, even if it was only in pretense.

I urged Atlas around the clearing, running him in a wide circle, closing my eyes to the rhythm of him underneath me. I let him run as he pleased, knowing he wouldn't take advantage of my attentiveness. I should have known better. Even the best of mounts can make mistakes, although I knew immediately it was my error. I heard his grunt of pain and opened my eyes as he fell beneath me, the ground rising up to meet me with swift and stunning ferocity.


	18. Revealed

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

_Sera_

Monsieur Gervais never returned from his ride with Peter, and I sighed in dismay as I removed his lunch tray from the table. At the rate I was going, if I continued to finish off the meals that he didn't eat, none of my new dresses would be fitting when they arrived. I cleaned the area downstairs, dusting the staircase and parlors. The library would soon need to be redone, as he was expecting a shipment of books in from one of his other homes that had been stocked with them. I'm sure at twenty thousand francs a month for Lord only knows how long, he was quite wealthy indeed.

I was having a difficult time imagining him as the villian terrorizing the Opera Populaire. He seemed so self righteous, very dignified. Yet I knew to an extent his anger, as well as how deep his passion could run. I also knew that he produced the most beautiful and evocative music that I had ever heard. Whatever he had been singing last night had been breathtakingly scandalous. His voice had echoed through the house, and I had been disturbed when I looked out the window and seen Peter hanging onto his every word. I had rushed from the house and shooed him inside the cottage, talking loudly over the music that could still be heard even outside in the lawn.

His voice was magnificent while he spoke, but singing? It was indescribable. If he had seduced the ballet corps with that voice, I seriously doubted it was to 'the fate worse than death'. I wondered about the alleged love affair between him and Vicomtresse de Chagny, formerly Christine Daae. Green envy stole into my heart, at a girl who could come from nothing, yet ensnare such a gorgeous man, then turn around and marry a Vicomte. I hoped she was suffering terribly. I knew instantly that if the man I worked for was the mysterious Phantom, he would not like her publishing a blooming word about him. I could only hope to receive a copy. It was probably the only way I would ever find out anything about him.

I trudged upstairs to the second floor, dusting off the powerful organ that stood in the music room. It was far too bright in here. I eyed the tall ceiling to floor windows with a determined eye. Perhaps he would allow me to redecorate. No doubt he would choose something black.

There was nothing else up here, so I went back downstairs to prepare his supper. When it became apparent that he wouldn't be coming for that either, I slipped out the side door to go back to the cottage. Peter came running from the barn, his eyes wide with panic.

"Sera! Sera!"

He fell against me in a heap, his breath catching harshly in his throat. Instantly I thought of Bernard.

"Monsieur Gervais, I think he's hurt!"

I looked around the yard then, and my heart stopped. The big bay gelding stood riderless beside the barn, mud and debris covering his large body. He was bleeding from his foreleg, and a large gash ran up the side of his flank.

"No," I whispered, looking back into Peter's worried eyes.

"I couldn't find him!" he cried, wrapping his arms around my waist.

"Peter, you must go and find Monsieur Merrill," I choked out, "tell him we may need a doctor."

Peter clutched me tighter, shaking his head against my stomach.

"Peter! You must go. Now!" I said harshly, pushing him away, "You can do this. Take the mare, go to Monsieur Merrill's house on Rue Garibaldi. Number 12."

I helped him onto his mare, slapping her flank sharply and hoping he could hang on. I turned my back to the bay, knowing Monsieur Gervais was out there and needed my help far more than the horse. I took off towards the woods, gasping at the cold water that reached my waist in the canal. I trudged up the bank, sliding down several times and having to grasp onto roots and branches to hoist myself across. My dress hung heavily around me, slowing me down as I stumbled through the woods. Somewhere back here was a clearing. I only hoped I could find it, and that he was somewhere around. Helplessly, I shouted his name, praying that he was still alive and conscious to hear it.

I thought I spied a piece of saddlery lying nearby and ran toward it. Beyond it, lying in the grass he was face down. I stumbled toward him, recoiling at the sight of blood on his face. Once I made it further, I could see that he was missing the mask, and the black wig was skewed to the side. I rolled him over, not easily, and the wig gaped widely at the top. His eyes were shut, his mouth hanging open.

"Monsieur Gervais?" I whispered urgently, touching his face. I felt his breath against the back of my hand and nearly wept with relief. I stroked his cheek, trying to get him to wake up.

I searched in his pockets for something to wipe away the blood, and I could find nothing. Sobbing now, I tried to wake him, but he wouldn't respond to me.

"Please, please don't die," I pleaded, praying softly with his head cradled in my lap. There was no way I could get him back to the manor, so I began shouting for help, praying that someone, anyone would come along. I don't know how long I sat there with him, feeling utterly helpless and terrified that he would die and I hadn't done a thing to save him.

When I heard the carriage entering the clearing I praised God for hearing my prayer. I looked back down into his face, and thought that every rumor in the Opera Populaire had been untrue. He wasn't a beast, he wasn't hideous. He was beautiful, and I was falling desperately in love with him. I adjusted his head so that I could flatten his hairpiece back onto his head, knowing he would hate to be seen without it. I couldn't find the mask, so when the carriage arrived with Monsieur Merrill I wouldn't allow the driver near him as we loaded him up into the cart.

"Where's the doctor?" I asked, holding onto his hand in the floor of the carriage.

"No," he shook his head.

_"No?"_ I looked up at him sharply.

"If he survived he would never forgive me. Or you," he said quietly.

I stared at him, knowing he was right, but couldn't imagine how he would survive the fall I'm sure he must have taken. I started to cry as I realized that he wasn't clear yet. He might not make it after all.

I don't know how the three of us managed, but we got him inside Eleonore's cottage. I knew there was no way to get him into the chateau, and Monsieur Merrill was gracious enough to comment that a dead body would be even heavier to carry down three flights of stairs than it was up. I glared at him until he left, making him promise to return in the morning to check on his employer.

I ordered Peter to gather some supplies from our cottage and bring them inside. Then I told him to go eat the meal I had made for Monsieur Gervais. He grumbled as he returned with towels and antiseptic, but I knew that he was worried.

I hesitated before removing the wig, but I needed to inspect his head for any wounds. I grunted as I lifted him towards me, holding his neck with one arm, and peeling back the hairpiece with my other hand.

I understood why he wanted to keep the flesh covered. The area on his face was uneven, and it was hard to tell where there might be an actual injury, or if it was simply part of the scarred face. I wiped the area down with antiseptic, peering closely at it to see if there were any cuts or bruising. I poked at it gently, even opened his mouth to feel his teeth, making sure there was no blood inside or anything was missing. I located the probable source of his unconsciousness above his left temple. The wound wasn't deep, and I could feel that the skull was still intact, although I am not a doctor and can't tell if this is serious or not. I cleaned the wound the best I could, then laid him back onto Eleonore's bed.

I removed his boots, looking at his beautiful coat with consternation. It was probably ruined anyway, but I still hated to cut it off from him.

Using Eleonore's sewing shears, I cut off the coat and shirt at the same time, holding my breath as his flesh was exposed to me. He was beautifully built, with wide shoulders and a nicely sculpted chest. There was a growing bruise across his stomach, most likely where the saddle or wither had connected with him. I suspected that he went end over end with Atlas, and hoped that if he survived that his horse would as well.

I checked to see if he had anything under his trousers, and thankful that he had on a pair of white undergarments. I cut the pants off as well, seeing deep bruising on his legs, mostly below his knees. He hadn't uttered a word the entire time we moved him, but when I began poking and prodding on his leg he groaned. I looked back expecting to see him wide eyed and looking at me, but he was still out. I covered him up to his chest with a heavy blanket, then bathed his hands in water, cleaning the mud and blood off his fingers and wrist. There was a trail of blood leading down towards his ear, and when I checked it, the head wound was bleeding slightly. I sat on the edge of the bed, holding a towel against the wound. Thoughtfully, I reached out and stroked the other side of his head, brushing back the thin wispy strands of long brown hair that lay against his skull.

When Peter came in I turned the lamp down to avoid his questions and curious glances.

"He isn't here for your amusement," I said sharply, then felt ashamed of myself.

Peter of all people would understand where this man came from.

"Did you take care of the horses?" I asked apologetically.

"Yes," his reply was sullen.

"Atlas?"

"He hurt his leg. I don't think it's broken, but I don't know. I cleaned the blood off him though."

I nodded, hoping he wouldn't have to be put down.

"Get some sleep," I instructed, telling him to lay down in the spare bedroom.

"Where are you going to sleep?"

I looked down at the man on the bed.

"I'm not."

* * *

A/N: I just realized a couple of chapters ago that they didn't have a last name, so in case you missed it, it's Tremaine. Sera and Peter Tremaine, their father was Arin Tremaine. The next chapter will also belong to Sera, because poor little Erik is out like a light. 


	19. Comfort

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

_Sera_

I moved a large rocking chair in from the living room and propped my feet against the bed, prepared to be there if he needed immediate attention. I watched his breathing through the night, bathing his forehead occasionally, cleaning off the blood in the wound around his head. I couldn't imagine him needing anything, other than pain medication when he awoke, but I didn't have anything to give him. He was no doubt going to be in agony when his eyes opened, and I was still praying that they would. I must have nodded off for a moment, but I stirred immediately when I heard him groaning.

"Monsieur Gervais?" I whispered, moving my feet away from the bed so that I could get closer to him. His eyes were clenched tightly shut, and his head twisted around side to side.

"Monsieur?" I whispered again, "Erik?"

I tried the feel of his name on my tongue, and liking it, said it again. I moved my hand over his face, trying to see if my touch would cause his eyes to open. It did not. I reached hesitantly across and touched the right side, always hidden by the mask. His skin was soft and smooth, free of hair, almost as supple as a childs. It was extremely red in color, rising in certain areas from the rest of his face in great lumps. I guessed that he woke up he would be furious to find it missing.

Eleonore had said never to ask about the mask. She didn't tell me what to do if I couldn't find it and my employer was half dead.

He began to mumble things, strange and bizarre things. It sounded as if he had been tortured.

Once my father had been beaten because he hadn't been able to pay off some men who had loaned him money. I remembered how much pain he had been in, how bloodied and bruised his body had been. He had said that it had been an entire group of men. Mother said it was one, and he had been too drunk to fight back properly.

"Kill _me_ then," he whispered, his trembling hands reaching out to embrace something above his head, "Kill me instead."

I reached out to touch his arm, and he raised half up off the bed, as if to glare at me, but his eyes never opened.

"Nadir. Find Nadir," he said urgently, before collapsing back onto the bed.

He began another litany of senseless words, a sheen of sweat breaking out over his entire body. I feared that he had developed a fever, but his skin was completely cold to the touch. I dried it off with heavy towels then covered him with multiple blankets, rubbing his skin vigorously to stimulate blood flow back to him. He seemed to have gone from completely unconscious to a terrifying nightmare he couldn't escape from.

My heart broke when he pleaded, "Not the mask."

I ran from his room into Peter's, waking him up.

"What?" he asked grumpily, reaching up to move his eye patch over. It was a strange trick he had developed recently, although I would never tell him that I found it discomfiting.

"I need you to go into Monsieur Gervais room and find him a mask," I said quietly. I only hoped he had as many of them as he had of the hairpieces.

"What for?" he looked annoyed to have been roused for something so trivial.

"Please, Peter. Please."

He grunted at me, but slipped his boots on. I hurried back to Monsieur Gervais, finding the wig where I had discarded it earlier. I carried it into the kitchen and removed the blood from the hairnet, then combed the coarse locks with my fingers. It wasn't very presentable, and I should have asked for a new one, but I didn't want him to know that it had ever been removed. I could only hope that the wound would not become infected from the thing. I put a little more antiseptic on the wound before blotting it with a towel and lifting his head to place the wig back on. He continued his mumbled monologue, although he was still for the most part.

He would hate me if he knew, and I could not bear that.

"I'm very sorry," I said gently, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

His violent outburst ceased at my touch, and I did it again, across his lips.

"Please live. For me."

Peter returned with a mask, identical to the one he had always worn. I shooed him out of the room before I put it against his face, concealing from me what he had never wanted to reveal. He slept peacefully from then on, but it was well after midnight before I was able to sleep as well.

* * *

Okay, I know this was short, but just be prepared. Erik is going to wake up soon...

Please keep up the excellent reviews. Nothing gets my heart pumping more, or sends my fingers flying faster. I'm feeling quite prolific.


	20. Awake

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

The pain was the first thing I noticed. I couldn't lift my eyes, and I was in immense pain. I stifled a groan, determined not to let whoever had beaten me hear my weakness. Then I remembered the fall. Atlas had taken a fall, and I as well. It hurt like nothing else I had ever felt before. I tried again to raise my lids, but found that when I did I could see nothing. I closed them again, too tired to try and figure out where I was. I heard voices in my left ear, or was it my right? No, they were coming from the foot of the bed. I tried hard to concentrate, the words becoming clearer as the black fog began to lift from my mind.

"You stayed here all night, Mademoiselle Tremaine?"

There was no doubt who that voice belonged to. Albert Merrill. I waited for the lady to reply, and was surprised to hear Sera's low and sweet voice. I'd had no idea what her last name was. I held my breath. Had she been the one? Last night I swore I had felt a woman's touch.

"I did," she admitted, sounding tired.

I opened one eye cautiously to peer at her. Her beautiful gown was ruined. It was stained with some incredibly dark mud, which also covered most of her face and her hair. I closed my eye tiredly. She wasn't the only one who was exhausted.

"I'm glad to see he is in much better shape than last night. It's a good thing I heard you shouting. He could have laid in that field all night if I hadn't heard you," Merrill said, "are you sure you won't take the morphine for his pain? Trust me, he's going to want it."

Hell yes I wanted it. I wanted it now. I hadn't taken the stuff in years, and before I had absolutely no reason to take it. Other than I wanted to forget. Who I was. What I am. What I will never be. I picked up the habit in Persia, and lost it in Paris.

"I'll keep it, but I'm only giving it to him if he asks. I've seen what this stuff does to people," she spoke tonelessly, "I wish you'd let me call a doctor in."

"No," Merrill returned swiftly, which I almost applauded him for. "I told you, if we call in a doctor he won't forgive us. You don't want to see him in a temper."

"What is the Angel of Music?"

My eyes almost popped open at that, but I knew that Merrill had probably nearly had an apoplexy at her innocent question.

"Where," he hissed, "did you hear that name?"

"From him."

"He mentioned the...that name? _To you?"_

I peered beneath an eyelid to see her nodding. I wondered where _he_ had heard it from.

"In what regard?" he asked suspiciously.

"He said I didn't want to know what happened to little girls who show the Angel affection. What does that mean?"

"It means that you should stay as far from him as possible. Especially if he is telling you to do so. Please, Mademoiselle Tremaine, for your own sake. _Heed his advice," _he sounded desperately afraid, and I felt ashamed for making him feel that way.

What a way to live your life, constantly in fear of something you have no control over. I know precisely how he feels. Every time I look in the mirror.

"You should go home and rest," Merrill sounded tired as well.

"No. I want to be here if he wakes up."

I almost asked why. Why would she want to be here? I prayed that she would stay, and hoped that she would leave. I wanted to feel her lips against my forehead again, hear the soft words of comfort she had said to me last night. She had apologized, but for what? I could feel the mask on my face, and my scalp was aching and itching so I knew that I wore the wig. Merrill's next words killed my wondrous mood, telling me precisely why she had been sorry.

"It is good that you restored his...appearance. He would have been very angry if he had woken up in his state last night. How did you find the mask?"

"Peter retrieved one from his room. I heard him saying things...has he been in prison?"

"It's none of your concern. Or mine," Merrill muttered.

"Who is Nadir?"

God would it end? Had I revealed my entire life in sleep to this woman?

"Mademoiselle, were you not listening? _Don't_ pry into his life. _Don't_ look into his past. You won't like what you find. Not one bit," Merrill sounded angry now, "Please, just go and rest. I'll watch him until you return."

I heard Sera sigh and leave the room. I raised up onto my elbows to look at Merrill.

"Where are my clothes?"

* * *

Also a short chapter...sorry ladies...I'm going to sleep. Tomorrow I will attempt to wake up bright and early. For now, I must go dream...the source of all my inspiration. 


	21. All Knowing

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

Merrill gaped at me. Clearly he thought I had been out, but he shouldn't have expected something like that from me. I had told him once that I always listened. For the most part I did, but I usually just said it to keep people from gossiping about me. It never worked for the ballet corps, or even Christine.

"Monsieur, I'm very sorry," he whispered, glancing down at his feet.

"It's fine," I muttered, "just find my clothes."

I had become aware the moment I heard Sera's voice that I was almost completely unclothed. It had not been a pleasant thought. Or perhaps it had? There was certainly some parts of my anatomy that thought so.

Merrill knelt at the foot of the bed and held up several articles of clothing. He turned his eyes back to me, turning redder faced by the moment.

"It appears she cut them off."

She had attended me as well? The idea of her seeing so much of me was incomprehensible. She had seen far too much, and I wasn't talking about the mask. I slouched back onto the bed, wincing as a throbbing pain shot through my head. I longed to reach up and touch it, but I wouldn't remove the hairpiece in front of him. Knowing how fearful he already was, I was determined not to lose my temper and show him how right he was about me.

"Would you like this now?" he asked, approaching my side.

I looked up to see a small amber vial in his hand. Blessed relief was inches away. All I had to do was say yes. So why did I find myself wanting to suffer without it? I had not touched the stuff in years.

"We once worked closely together, did we not?" I faltered as I spoke, wondering what possessed me to bring up something so ridiculous.

"Yes, at one time," he sounded wary, as if he expected that I might be laying a trap for him.

"It changed, didn't it?"

He nodded his head hesitantly, "In Paris."

He looked away then, as if he couldn't believe the audacity of his own statement.

"In Paris," I agreed. We had worked together. He submitted bids for me, as well as managed all of my money and investments. He also kept me with a steady supply of morphine, which I devoured like a crazed lunatic for far to many years. The morphine had a calming effect on me. It made me docile, almost lamb-like. That was the sole reason for our _closeness_. Merrill and I had not been close, as brothers, or even friends would, but I had treated him as a colleague. If I had ever allowed anyone to manage some part of my life, it was when Albert Merrill first came under my employ, while I was under the influence of the sweet and intoxicating cocktail he held in his hand. The reason I have continued to employ him is that he has never taken advantage of me. He's never stolen from me, done his best not to gossip about me, and never, ever revealed my secrets.

"In Paris," I muttered, "I stopped taking_ that. _I have no desire to return to what I was before."

Immediately the bottle disappeared. He sat down in the chair next to my bed. A bold move for a man who had been terrified of me for the last fifteen years.

I closed my eyes, tired from my disturbing morning. I cursed myself for being foolish, for getting hurt. I wondered how Atlas was faring, but before I could ask I felt my nerves begin to twitch as fatigue settled in. My heart rate began to slow as I drifted off to sleep.

"I wouldn't have ever harmed you," I mumbled sleepily before I gave in to the darkness.

* * *

I woke up when I felt a cold washcloth settle on my face. I flinched, extremely annoyed at having been woken in such a manner. I opened my eyes and found Sera above me, her soft hair falling in a curtain around her shoulders. 

"Good evening," she whispered, smiling, "I'm sorry I wasn't here before. I wasn't exactly fit for company."

"I saw you," I said, "You were very...muddy."

She pulled away from me, blushing furiously.

"I suppose I was."

I looked down and saw that she was wearing the brown garment again. Her dress had been ruined. I wondered what she had done that could have caused it to look in such a way. I turned my eyes from hers, remembering that all that she had seen. The mask, the hair. I wanted to shout at her, for looking, for seeing. Instead I lay there, wallowing in my own humiliation and self pity. I couldn't even bring myself to speak of such things.

"How does your head feel?" she asked gently, "You have quite a nasty bump...right here."

She pointed to her own head as she spoke, a spot above her left temple. Now that she mentioned it, I felt like Hell. I told her so.

She nodded sympathetically, but didn't speak. I knew she was asking permission to examine it, but I couldn't bring myself to tell her either way. Instead she brought the cloth again to my face, wiping away what exactly, I don't know, but it felt good. She rubbed my neck and upper chest, and I let her. It seemed she effected me like morphine, making me as docile as a lamb. I couldn't help but focus on her face as she tended to me, so wonderfully close to mine, all I had to do was reach up and touch her.

"You should listen to Merrill," I said softly, "You should stay away from me."

Her hands stopped moving over me as she looked at me in surprise.

"You heard that?"

I managed a smirk, telling her what I had told so many before. She shook her head at me, telling me it wasn't polite to eavesdrop. I wanted to tell her it wasn't polite to ask questions about a man she had no business learning anything about, but I remained silent. I was at her mercy, for now. My legs were so badly hurt, as well as my head. I desperately needed to find a bathroom.

"Mademoiselle, could you please excuse me for a moment?"

She looked surprised by my request, but nodded. She left the room and I heard her moving around in the kitchen. I sat up, holding back every groan and curse that came to my mind. The room spun for a moment, and I wasn't sure if my legs would support me, but somehow I managed to make it into the bathroom. I was grateful that these little cottages had them, and not outhouses. I shuddered merely thinking about chamber pots.

When I opened the door she was standing in the room beside the bed, gathering up blood soaked towels. She avoided my eyes as I stumbled back towards the bed, feeling as if I hadn't a stitch of clothes on, even though my undergarments went down almost to my knees. I sank into the rocking chair, tugging a blanket from the bed to drape across my lap. She finally looked at me then, still holding onto the towels.

"Can I get you anything?"

"When is Merrill coming back?" I asked, closing my eyes.

"Tomorrow morning, I believe," she said, adjusting the bundle in her arms.

"Good. I'll need some clothing," I opened my eyes to give her a smirk. She was blushing again. What a lovely sight it was. I was in constant amazement that I had that affect on her. "I'm returning home first thing."

She nodded, then scurried from the room with the towels. I attempted to move forward in the chair so that I could fall back onto the bed, but I couldn't gain momentum in the rocker by myself. Every time I tried the room began to spin. I closed my eyes again, waiting for her to return.

She came back with some sort of zucchini soup, which I looked at doubtfully.

"Just try it," she said encouragingly. She sat before me on the bed, holding the bowl in front of me. I continued to look at the slimy looking concoction, until she grasped the spoon herself and took a bite, then offered me one.

"Give it here, I can feed myself," I choked, feeling desperately foolish. I had never been spoon fed as a child, and I wouldn't start now.

She shrugged and handed me the bowl. I finished half of it without really tasting it, but knew that it wouldn't remain on my favorites list. I set the bowl on the bedside table, suddenly conscious that our knees were touching.

"Would you like to lie back down?" she asked softly.

"Please. But I can't...I need you to...," I broke off, unable to say the words. I had never asked for help from anyone before, and it made me feel strange inside. Weak. Or perhaps weaker than I already was.

"Of course," she murmured, and scooted forward.

She lifted my arms around her neck, then placed hers underneath mine. Together we swayed until my legs were able to gain footing away from the rocking chair. I stood now above her, the soft silkiness of her hair resting at my chin. Somehow her arms had moved down to my waist, and I became incredibly aware of my bare skin beneath her hands. The blanket that had lain over my lap was caught between us, and it was the only thing that kept our bodies apart. It was torture, and heaven, and all too brief. Before I could speak, her fingers had found the scars along my back. As soon as she touched them, I recoiled from her, nearly falling back into the chair. Instead I pushed her aside so that I fell forward, onto the bed. I turned about as quickly as I could, pulling the blanket over as much as my body as I could. I wanted to hide my head under it as well, but instead I propped against the headboard to stare at her malevolently.

Hadn't Merrill warned her? Hadn't I? She was looking at me guardedly, her eyes moving over my form on the bed. I felt as if I were being inspected, and I didn't like it.

"Leave."

The word caught her off guard, I could tell, but she nodded. Before she left she carried a bottle of something toward me, some towels, and a mirror.

"You'll need these," she whispered, not looking me in the eye, "you'll need them for your head."

I stared after her retreating back, knowing then the true depth of what she had seen. She hadn't looked at me when she said it, and I suddenly felt as if I could never look at her again.

* * *

Okay, sorry I didn't update as quickly as before. I DID get up early, PROMISE, but I'm in a lazy mood. I'll try to do at least one more for today. 


	22. Little Spy

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

_Sera _

I returned only one other time that night to check on him, and I had left the door open so that I could be certain he was asleep when I did. He was sleeping peacefully, lying on his right side with his mask clutched in his hand. The right side of his face was hidden from me by the pillow, but I knew that he had to feel much more comfortable with it off. I left a glass of water on the nightstand and took the bowl of soup with me when I left.

I know, that he knows, what I have seen. I can't summon the words to tell him what I think. What am I? I servant to him, nothing more. A servant who had kissed _him,_ once while he was in full control of his faculties, and twice when he wasn't. He had kissed me once, so briefly, of his own accord. I recall what his skin had felt like against mine, and remember thinking as I had stood next to him beside the bed that even in his weakened state he could have overtaken me. Yet I had been the one to frighten him. I had felt the traces of scarring on his back, and my fingers had run across them of their own volition. He had pushed away from me as Peter often had, and I knew that whatever had happened to him had traumatized him as much as whatever had happened to his face.

I understood what had driven him to live inside the catacombs beneath the theater in Paris. If I had the means, there are times when I would have gladly crawled into a cave and lived, if only to be away from the cruel world. The people in the factory had _known_ what Bernard did to me, and had never raised a finger to help me. How could they? They were as miserable and exhausted as I was, except most of them had never endured what I had gone through to protect my brother. They had no doubt heard my screams from inside the abandoned factory, screams that weren't always in pain. They were a precursor to pain. If I screamed enough, he wouldn't hurt me as badly.

I lay across the bed inside the spare room, as far from Peter as I could get. I didn't like to be touched as I remembered these things, and tonight for some reason the memories would not stop coming. I drifted off, but each time I felt those hands on me, or the fire licking at my flesh. Peter woke me once, saying that I had been having a nightmare, then stomped off into the living room. No doubt to get some sleep on the settee. I lay back down, lighting a lamp so that I wouldn't have to be in the dark. I stared at the ceiling for several hours before giving up and rising.

* * *

Monsieur Gervais was watching me through the door. I could feel his eyes on me as I passed back and forth, preparing a light breakfast with some food I had brought from our house. I was in an irritable mood. I hadn't had a decent nights sleep in a long, long time. Well before I had spent it up tending to him. He had been causing me problems for weeks now, with his music, with his damned voice. It was maddening, and all I could do was continue to serve him.

I took a tray into his room, then left again without a word. I woke Peter, saying he needed to tend the horses. He grumbled and protested, but eventually left, satiated with the thought that he wouldn't have to prepare his own breakfast.

I went into the chateau and retrieved a pair of trousers and an undershirt for Monsieur Gervais. If he wanted anything else he'd have to get it himself. When I handed him the garments he said nothing, and it appeared as though we would pass the entire morning in silence. It was fine with me. I had no idea what to say to him, and the mood I was in, I thought it best if I said nothing at all.

Merrill arrived with a carriage, and between him and Peter they hauled him into it, then took him the short distance up to the steps of the chateau. I didn't believe for a moment that he would actually climb those stairs himself, yet he did. Slowly, but he made it. Merrill stood beside him, occasionally assisting him if he needed to rest. I followed much more slowly. Every time he caught my eye he began to scowl. By the time they reached his room he was panting with exertion. I hung outside the door out of his sight in case he needed me. Otherwise I would have never heard his next words.

"Merrill, I need you to deliver a letter to Christine," he said roughly, "remind her of her promise to me. Remind her what she promised her Angel. Make sure she knows it is...posthumous."

"As you wish, but don't you think it may be too late?" Merrill asked hesitantly.

"If it is, so be it, but I have to try. She promised me she wouldn't tell. I set her free, completely. She knows better than to disobey me, even in death," he sounded angry now.

"Is there anything else you require?"

I didn't hear an answer, but I did find myself very soon faced with Merrill. He gripped my arm tightly as he led me away from the open door. He didn't let me go until we were down the stairs, then out through the front door. He sighed as he looked at me, as if he couldn't believe my stupidity and his recklessness.

"You are treading on a very dangerous path, Mademoiselle. A very tedious path, indeed," he said tensely. He pointed sharply up toward the third floor of the house. "Do you have any _idea_ who he is?"

"The Phantom?" I asked timidly, feeling ashamed for what I had done, and still so curious to learn more.

His eyes narrowed at me.

"You _will_ forget that name. I should recommend that you be relieved of your duties. He seems to have some fondness for you, and you for him, but make no mistake about _who_ and _what_ he is. He doesn't want you prying into his life. He has been alone his entire life, and doesn't want anyone interfering. Don't you understand?"

I shook my head dumbly. No, I didn't understand. Why on earth he would want to remain that way. With a sigh of disgust Merrill left me alone there, and went back upstairs. I was in the kitchen moments later when he entered.

"Monsieur Gervais would like a word with you," he muttered, then left me alone to face the man upstairs.


	23. Silver Skates

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

_Sera_

I cannot describe the fear and dread that tangled inside me. I knew that when I climbed those stairs that the Phantom would be waiting, not the vulnerable and handsome man I had cared for the past two days. Not the gentle and passionate man I had kissed impulsively. It would be the Phantom, and I knew it would be my first true meeting with him. Like the coward I am, I wanted to run out the back door into the morning light, taking Peter and locking us both inside the cottage. I almost laughed aloud. Even in his weakened state I had no doubt that he would find a way in. Commanding me to him was about power and control, I told myself, not his injuries. I wondered if I would come away shaking with terror as my father had, and cursed myself for my curious nature. I could have lived the rest of my life next door, working for him, serving him, and never known a blooming thing about him.

I wouldn't have cared. I still didn't, not really. I had seen too much good in him to believe that he was completely bad. He used fear as a way to manipulate people, but I had seen his other side. The sensitive and caring side. The pain that had flashed in his eyes when I had said those hateful words to him. The desire that had leapt into the intense green eyes when I had kissed him. I didn't believe for a moment that he was a monster. I knew that he portrayed what they believed him to be to avoid pain. To keep them away, so that they could never hurt him.

I climbed the stairs slowly. Very slowly. Each landing that I reached brought my panic up a little higher, until I was almost hysterical. I felt like a naughty child being sent off to receive their punishment. Merrill had tattled, and I must face my punishment. Dutifully I knocked on his door.

"Enter."

I opened the door cautiously, finding him sitting at his desk. His back was to me as he wrote something down, and I waited nervously for him to speak. He ignored me for several moments, probably to allow the tension to build. I knew his game, and still I was frightened. I wished I had the courage to call his bluff, but I didn't.

"So," he said curtly, his back to me still, "you appear to have learned my great secret. I suppose you would like to be commended for your reasoning skills."

Did he expect a response? I thought it was rhetorical, but I couldn't be sure. He finally turned around to look at me.

"Well?"

"No," I whispered, keeping as close to the open door as I could.

"Do you think I am pleased? I know what you have seen," he ran a hand over the white mask, "now I wish to know what other things you might have heard about me. Or told about me."

"I would never..." I insisted, but he silenced me with a wave of his hand.

He turned around and picked up the newspaper.

"Is this your source?" he asked angrily, tossing it toward me.

"Yes," I said meekly, looking at the paper instead of him, "I would never tell."

"I've heard those words before from a woman, I am in no way inclined to believe them from you."

I looked at him then, seeing for the first time since I came in that he looked weary. He was no longer sitting straight in the chair, one arm was draped loosely over the back of the chair, the other resting on the desk as he sat at a half turn toward me. Perhaps the Phantom wasn't present after all. Or perhaps I should consider them one and the same.

"Perhaps you would like to remove my tongue then? Or beat me into submission?" I found the audacity to ask, "Maybe," I said stepping into the room, "you would like to string me from the balustrade."

His eyebrow rose, and I saw his lips quirk. Did he know that I was teasing?

"Maybe."

"Monsieur..," I began, but he interrupted me.

"My name is Erik," he said gruffly, "just Erik."

I smiled and braved a step closer. He looked at my dress, muttering that I should have gotten another one.

"They'll arrive in time. I only hope I won't have to swim anymore canals, I don't think I enjoyed my bath very much," I said coyly, "and they really very cold this time of year."

He raised his head to give me an incredulous look.

"You swam the canal? Why in God's name would you do something so foolish?" he exclaimed.

"To find you, of course. I thought you might be injured...even dead." I said haltingly.

"Why would you care?" he asked, sounding bitter.

There was sadness in his eyes as he spoke, and I could see how very lonely he was. Merrill was wrong. He didn't want to be left alone. The world had really done a number on him. He believed that he was worthless, undeserving of even basic things like compassion and kindness.

I closed the distance between us, kneeling in front of him.

"Because you are human, Erik."

I watched in astonishment. Little Hans Brinker had removed his finger, and the dike had finally burst.


	24. The Dam has Burst

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

I felt as if I would simply drown. If I couldn't stop the flow of tears inside me, I would drown, but I would die a happy man. She had said my name, and called me human. Me, _human. _Looking sincere as she said it, giving my soul something I had needed and not even known. I felt awkward sobbing in front of her like this, and I buried my face in my hands, hiding from her what I could. When she put her small hands at my shoulders and turned me towards her, I cried harder as I felt the burden of my grief lift slightly from me and transfer to her.

_This _was comfort? _This_ was what I had been missing? It seemed terribly unfair that I had missed the arms of someone around me, especially while I was like this. There was so much more to a touch than sexuality. The performers in the theater knew it. Their roles were often times loaded with sensual music and romantic parts. On stage they threw their all into the performance, and afterwards, when the roar of the crowd had died off, they would slink backstage to meet their lovers, fulfilling what they could not on stage. Performing could be erotic, and they needed an outlet for their urgings.

I had never had such an outlet. I understood what a simple touch could mean. I hadn't had it much, and when I had, it was mostly done in cruelty. Even the woman the Sultana had ordered to lie with me preferred death over my touch. Sure, I had as strong of a sexual drive as the next guy. But a simple touch? That was all it ever took to undo me. Christine's had, Eleonore's had. Even Sera, with her innocent kiss and vigilant ministrations.

I buried my face into the curve of her neck, my chin resting on the scratchy surface of the brown dress. Had I ever thought it to be horrid? No. It was heavenly. I caught her around the ribs, just beneath her arms, and pulled her tightly to me. She was a willing, breathing woman in my arms, her hands sliding up around me and clutching at the back of my neck. She stroked the back of my head, her fingers sliding from the wig onto my neck, whispering nonsensical and soothing words to me. Oh, God, she was so sweet.

I had never been given such a beautiful gift. I held her to me tightly, much too tightly in fact, but I couldn't let her go. Everything I had ever wanted in this miserable world I had taken. If I relinquished my hold she could slip away, and be gone forever.

I ached everywhere. My head, my gut, my legs. Mostly my heart.

"Sera, Sera," I chanted her name, whispering it against her neck. She held me tighter in response, sending another swell of emotion through me. God, would it ever stop? Even if she did this out of pity I would treasure this moment. I prayed that it was not, especially when I felt her lips press against my temple.

I went utterly still at her seemingly innocuous gesture, my breathing halting as she did it again, lower, onto my cheek.

"There's never been a man more deserving," I heard her whisper, wondering what she meant.

I pulled away from her, to look into her beautiful face, and with awe found that she was crying as well. What reason would _she_ have to cry? I kissed her forehead softly, and when she didn't pull away I kissed each cheek, each tear filled eye as I cradled her head in my hands. She didn't pull away as I pressed my lips to hers, and our breaths caught as the electricity again sparked between us. No, she didn't pull away, she pressed herself closer to me, her hands sliding from my neck to each side of my face, her fingers covering half of the mask as she did so.

Somehow I knew she wasn't going to remove it. Maybe it was because she had gone through so much trouble to have it on when I woke up. Maybe it was because she was kissing me mindless, and for the first time I really didn't care. She could plunge a blade into my heart, and I wouldn't care. Not if she continued kissing me with all the passion and intensity I had been longing for my entire life. I could have continued for an eternity and never taken another stray crumb she ever offered. Had I not heard the distant slam of the door I most certainly would have tried.

I broke away from her, breathless and so painfully aware of her hands still on me that I almost resumed, and damn whoever wanted to come up here with us.

"Someone's coming," she whispered hoarsely, but made no move away from me.

That was how Merrill found us. I had sworn earlier that I wouldn't harm him, and now I wanted more than anything to string _him_ from the balustrade. Yet if it wasn't for his interference I wouldn't have had this moment with her. I would be lying in bed, alone, trying to ignore my pain. This was far, far better.

I glanced up at him when he entered, silently daring him to say one word. Just one word, and I would throttle him. Sera turned her face into my neck, her breathing ragged against me. His eyes widened in shock, darting between me and Sera, but he didn't even open his mouth. He just turned and left.

After several moments Sera began to titter. I first thought she was shaking with fear, but when I turned her face upwards, merriment was in her eyes. She laughed with joy, and what a beautiful sound! I kissed her again, silencing her until the only sounds that came from her throat were raw and primal. Her tongue met mine, exploring inside my mouth, the sensation nearly making me bolt from my chair. Ah, the agony! I was intoxicated by her, every sound she made only heightening my desire, every sweep of her mouth across me only ratcheting up my throbbing heart another degree.

"Sera," I said softly, breaking away from her, "Sera, you don't know what you do to me."

"I do," she rasped, "I do, because you do it to me as well."

Her eyes were glazed over with passion, her mouth parted softly, still wet from my kisses, still swollen from desire. I ran my fingers through her dark tresses, and her eyes closed in pleasure. She moved her head against my hand as I did it again.

She opened her eyes and I saw pain. Her next words sent my euphoric state crashing around me, the statement searing my soul as disappointment descended, however brief.

"Erik, I don't know if I can bear another man's touch again. Not even yours."

* * *

I had heard her screaming the night before. From my bed inside the cottage, I could hear her muffled cries of terror, her pleas to stop. At first I had nearly bolted from the bed. No matter what pain I was in, I wouldn't allow anyone to hurt her again. Then Peter had shouted grumpily at her, telling her to wake up. I knew, then, the degree of shame and humiliation she had gone through for the boy. I knew that whatever had happened, hadn't been as infrequent as 'the first' every month. Perhaps it was a way to remind her, or keep her in line at work.

I had noticed her hands before, and took them in my own now, studying the uneven and unnaturally smooth planes of her fingers. She had been burned. So badly that the fingers were almost irregular in shape at the tips. Her wrists had large round burn marks on them, undoubtedly from a cigar. I kissed each hand, each burn, then wiped away her tears.

"You could kiss me every day," I said roughly, "and I would never expect such a thing from you. _That_ isn't important to me. If this was all you were ever able to do, I would thank God everyday for giving me something so wonderful," I kissed her hands again, "and no one, _no one_, will ever hurt you again, especially in _that_ way."

It seemed that now _I _had found the keystrokes to her undoing. She launched herself back into my arms, not hearing or not caring at my grunt of pain as she slammed against my stomach. I held her shaking body in my arms, wondering why she didn't cry, or couldn't. She wasn't crying, but she was trembling terribly. I rocked her gently, until she stopped shaking, until her breathing was even and steady against my neck.

"Erik?" she whispered huskily.

"Yes?"

"Are you angry with me, still?" she asked.

"No," I laughed softly, "no, I think if it would have led to this moment, I would have gladly told you anything."

"Would you still?" she asked, peering at me.

"Most things," I amended, not wanting to frighten her.

"Could you tell me about my father? Why was he really dismissed from the Opera Populaire?"


	25. The Ghost of Long Ago

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

I didn't know what to say. My tongue twisted inside my mouth, and I couldn't utter a single word. I looked into her eyes, and was relieved not to find anger or fear. What a feeling, to look into those eyes, into any eyes, and not see fear! I saw only her curious face, with her lower lip tucked neatly under the upper, her teeth pressing indentations on to it. Her hands were still were still around me, and I could feel her warm skin through my shirt, as well as her fingers resting against my neck.

I would never tire of her touch. Even if she merely held my hand, I would be satisfied.

"Your...father?" I finally asked, "I don't know," I said, guessing.

She shook her head slightly, giving me a cheeky grin.

"You nearly scared the devil right out of him. He only worked there two days, and he said you caught him in the cellars, drinking. He was to be fired, but instead he quit."

"I caught many men in the cellars drinking," I said wryly, "and there were many men fired for much less. Who was he?"

"Arin Tremaine."

The name wasn't ringing any bells, but if he had been drinking in my theater, no doubt he hadn't made an impression on me. I had more important things to worry about at the time than drunkards, although I spared no expense in getting rid of them. They were a constant nuisance, always causing _my_ rehearsals to be disrupted, destroying equipment, then there was the theft of _my_ wine. Half the time when a prop was dropped, it wasn't at my hand. Some fool released a rope, then blamed it on me so he wouldn't be fired. I usually dealt with them swiftly, and if the managers didn't take immediate action, I would approach them myself.

"I don't know, Sera. I was responsible for a lot of...unemployment from the theater. I'm sorry if I caused him any harm."

She shook her head again, "No. He was a foolish man. I often thought if he had heeded your warning, to not be drinking on the job, he would still be alive. He fell from a construction site and died instantly. He had been drinking."

Well. I really had nothing to say to that, so I apologized again.

"You should be resting," she murmured, reaching up to caress my cheek.

I realized that I was quite tired. She stood up and helped me to the bed, and this time when she touched my back I didn't shudder. She removed my boots for me, then pulled the covers across my legs.

"Do you need anything?" she whispered.

I shook my head, wishing she didn't have to leave.

"I need to check on Peter. I'll be back later," she said, then leaned down to press a kiss to my lips. I watched her leave, and closed my eyes so that I could remember her face. So I could imagine the darkening of her eyes, just before her lips met mine. I went to sleep dreaming of her face bending over mine, kissing me sweetly.

* * *

I must have slept the entire day away and not even known it. I woke up to my dim bed chambers, to see Sera sitting in the chair beside the bed. I had not even stirred.

"Sera?"

She jerked in front of me, and I realized she had been asleep.

"Are you okay?" she asked gently, running her hand across my face.

"I think so," I said, "you should be home. In bed."

"I wanted to make sure you didn't need anything. I only meant to come in here to check on you, but I sat down for awhile. I guess I dozed," she said, flushing.

"You may sit at my bedside anytime," I whispered hoarsely.

She reached over and took my hand.

"Hungry?"

I was. Not only for food. I sat up on the bed and pulled her to me, kissing her gently. She sighed, leaning into me, and I took more, until I knew that I must stop. I had to, or my promise to her was going to be far too difficult to keep.

"What do you have?" I finally asked, hoping it wasn't zucchini soup.

She handed me a bowl of some type of broth-like soup, with a mystery meat in it that tasted delicious. It was still warm, so I guessed that it wasn't too late in the evening. She sat in silence as I ate, then took the bowl from me.

"How is Peter?"

"He's very concerned about you. He mentioned something about lessons...?"

"Ah, yes. He wishes to learn about mathematics," I remarked, "I told him if you approved that I could teach him something."

"I don't want him to pester you. He can be very bothersome sometimes."

"You're his sister, of course you would say that," I teased.

She laughed softly, agreeing.

I reached out to take her hand again, but she pulled back.

"I should go. He's probably worrying right now."

I nodded, wishing she could stay, knowing it wasn't right or proper. Even if this was as close as we got, it wasn't proper.

She stood up and leaned over to kiss me again.

"Maybe when you are feeling better, you could play a song for me," she whispered, then left.

Yes. I could do that for her. If she commanded it, I would write her a symphony. Hell, I'd even write her an opera. I stayed up half the night contemplating it.


	26. Liniment

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

_Sera_

Erik seemed to much improved the next day. I went upstairs before I made him breakfast, and found that he was sitting at his desk looking out over the estate. He turned around and smiled hesitantly at me.

"Good morning, Sera," he said, his deep, rough voice sending warm pleasure through me.

"Good morning, Erik," I returned, already feeling warm as his gaze settled on me. I had gotten up early and run into Lyon with Peter and hurriedly bought a dress at the first shop I came to. It was a little loose on me, but I had filled out some in the last couple of weeks. Working in the factory had often made me too exhausted to eat. I knew that I was regaining some of the color in my cheeks that had been missing for so long.

"How do you feel?" I asked softly, moving closer to him.

He stood up and stepped toward me.

"I feel...phenomenal," he whispered, and then he pulled me to him, bending his head to kiss me.

My heart raced just before our lips met and I struggled to breath. His kiss was gentle, soft, and I shivered from the effect. I could imagine him like this every morning, tasting him, falling under his spell. He had apparently just shaved, because his jaw was incredibly smooth, and smelled of a rich masculine aftershave.

"You most certainly do," I whispered breathlessly.

He broke away from me and blinked, then his eyes crinkled at the corners. I blushed for uttering something so ridiculous, but he kissed me again, and I was somehow able to forgive myself.

"Are you ready for breakfast?" I was finally able to ask.

"Something small," he said carelessly, "I plan on going down to check on Atlas."

"Do you feel up to it?"

He grunted at me, then sat down to pull his boots on. I watched as he shoved his stockinged feet inside, not noticing any signs of wincing or lip biting. He seemed like he was indeed much improved.

I ran into Lyon to stop at the market, and to check on the progress of my dresses. Hailing a hack in the outlying village is often difficult, and I usually had to walk several blocks just to find one available. I stopped at the small shop that Eleonore had recommended, instead of the one I usually went to. Everything was cheaper there, because it was old, and sometimes I found bugs in the flour, or the meat was slightly questionable. I purchased enough for the rest of the week, then stopped in at the dress shop.

"Yes, Mademoiselle Tremaine?" the older seamstress asked, looking at me with disdain.

No doubt she remembered what I had worn inside last time. I knew she was wondering where my simple blue dress had come from, but I didn't volunteer any information.

"I wanted to check on the dresses," I said stiffly, looking at a gorgeous green gown that was displayed on a mannequin. It was lovely, simply breathtaking. I knew that as long as I lived I would never be able to afford such a dress. The basque bodice was slightly off shoulder, the trained skirt full in the back. It was exactly the shade I had envisioned when I had first had the opportunity to take Eleonore's place. Pale green, with darker pleats at the sleeves and bodice.

"I have two prepared," she said politely, but her eyes were far from friendly.

I took the two gowns and left, thankful that Merrill had already paid, and I wouldn't have to deal with money in front of her. After the driver delivered me back to the estate, I put away my things and walked out to the barn where I could see Erik and Peter inside.

They were bent over Atlas, and Erik was explaining something to Peter, who was hanging onto every word.

"For injuries like this, it would have been better to have soaked his leg in cold water. Just in case he damaged any muscles. That would have helped the swelling. As it is, he will be sore for awhile," Erik said patiently.

"I'm very sorry Monsieur Gervais," Peter sounded upset.

"No, you did nothing wrong," he started to reach out and put his hand on Peter's shoulder, but stopped. "As the stable boy, I just wanted to explain these things. He's going to be fine. You did a good job cleaning those cuts. And I told you, just call me Erik."

I could tell that raised Peter's spirits by the set of his shoulders. I cleared my throat, and they turned around to look at me.

"The prognosis is good, then?"

"Oh, Sera! He didn't break his leg!" Peter exclaimed, bounding over to me. As usual he stopped before he reached my side, "Erik says he's gonna be fine!"

I smiled at his exuberance, then looked over to Erik. He was wiping the horses leg down with something. I wrinkled my nose at the pungent smell.

"What is that?"

Erik grunted at me over his shoulder. He had his cravat across his nose.

"Opodeldoc," he said, sounding breathless.

"It smells disgusting."

He stood up and drew in a couple deep breaths.

"That's because it is," he said, then pulled down the cravat, "but Atlas will not think so in a couple of days."

I smiled at him, and he smiled back. Peter rolled his eyes.

* * *

Okay ladies, that's all you get from me today, and possibly tomorrow. July 29th is my sixth year anniversary married to a wonderful man, and I'm still wearing my gym clothes, and haven't even bought him a card. Have a good weekend...

* * *


	27. Isolation

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

The lightness of my heart far outweighed any injury I was suffering from. I was tempted to feign weakness and spend the next few days in bed with Sera tending me, but who would take care of matters downstairs? I knew Atlas would need me, and Peter would need my guidance until he was able to accomplish everything by himself. Merrill had apparently gone straight to Paris after he had caught me kissing Sera, and I was beginning to wonder what I was going to do with her.

She could no longer stay in my employ. I would be no better than Bernard if I allowed her to continue working here and was fantasizing about her the entire time. No, she would have to go, but what other arrangement could be made? I finally decided that until Merrill returned and was able to find a suitable replacement, I would leave things as they were. I didn't want both an angry female and an unclean house on my hands.

Though my legs still ached, and the goose egg on my head was irritating, I think I fared better than Atlas anyway. His leg was going to take time to heal, and in the meantime I would begin riding _Sunshine. _I wished I had at the very_ least_ protested her name. I think privately that I will call her Mila. I felt a grin slip onto my face. It means nice _and_ pleasant in Russian.

"Why are you smiling?"

I turned my head toward the doorway of the barn to find Sera standing there. She hadn't worn the brown dress in over three days, a fact that made me elated and nervous at the same time. I could see her slender body more fully in the custom gowns, and the lavender color of this one brought out the green in her eyes and made her skin seem to glow.

"Just my muse catching up with me. She has been silent for several days now," I said casually.

"_She?_ Your muse is a lady?" she said teasingly.

"All of the muses are ladies. Mine happens to be Aoide, the goddess of song," I returned sagely.

"I wonder that I have none. I think my muse must be on vacation near the sea," she said brightly, and I knew then that I had embarrassed her by correcting her.

"Did you not complete your studies, then, Sera? All accomplished young women should have had some degree of education," I said, then regretted the condescending words immediately. What did it matter to me if she had an education or not? I had no formal training as well, and I had turned out remarkably well read.

"Mother taught me as best she could. She insisted that I take all the necessary lessons that she had as a young girl. Her family had insisted upon her good education, but she had the misfortune to marry my father," she returned, with no apparent anger. I breathed in relief.

"What sort of things did you learn?" I asked, more as a curiosity of what I would need to teach Peter than anything.

"History, literature, art," she said carelessly, "and of course music. All the non technical things every young girl should know about."

"Music?" I asked, hoping she would tell me more about that subject, but she was already shaking her head.

"No. _No._ I am terrible at it. Don't even think it," she laughed, "I would make your ears bleed. Truly."

I allowed her to change the subject, but I had no intentions of letting the matter drop. Anyone could learn music. If they had the patience, and the inclination. If mine had touched her as I thought it did, then she must recognize the passion that I felt for it.

"Would you like to take a walk with me?" I asked, surprising her.

"A...walk?" she repeated doubtfully.

"Yes..._a walk_...just down the street. I promise to have you home before midnight, Cinderella. At the very least by supper."

So we began walking down the cobblestone streets in the fading residential and growing industrial district of Charpennes. I was dismayed to notice exactly how increasing the industrial section really was. The beautiful estates were being bordered by large textile and glass factories. The factories in turn spewed out dust from flax and a thick black grime that was beginning to cover every building in the city. My own house was no exception, and during the growing humid months I was finding it increasingly difficult simply to breath. I knew then that I wouldn't be able to live here forever. I wanted to breath in the rich fresh air of the French countryside, not inhale a lungful chemicals and dust.

"Do you ever miss Paris?" she asked.

I thought for a moment. Did I? Did I miss living in absolute solitude, in agony every day because I was so alone? Did I miss the theater? Did I miss Christine?

"Yes and no," I said quietly. "I have found something here that I never believed that I would."

"What is that?" she asked softly.

I turned to look at her as we walked. She had her hands clasped behind her back, carefully avoiding my eyes. She looked very lovely just then. Her shoulders were elegantly pushed back, her spine arching gracefully in response to the angle of her arms.

"I found acceptance," I returned, not daring to say more. "I do miss the Opera Populaire. It was my home for a number of years. I breathed life into that place, made it my own, even though it really wasn't. But they listened, yes they did. They always obeyed me." Almost always anyway.

"What do you miss most about your home?" she whispered, and suddenly I knew she was asking about Christine.

"I miss the opera performances themselves, of course. I love music. I always have, and now if I want to hear it, I must perform it myself," I said truthfully. "Have you never seen a performance?"

"Not even a play. Certainly not an opera," she admitted, "I wouldn't understand it if I did."

"They are sung in French, you know," I said carefully. "and Spanish, and Italian, even Russian. Many more languages, but in my opinion, French is the most beautiful. I suppose I am prejudice in the matter."

She laughed, "Even then, I think I would be lost."

We turned the corner near the end of the road, and suddenly we were looking at the textile factory where Sera had worked for the last couple of years. She stopped when she saw it, but her gaze grew colder as she looked beyond it to an old decaying warehouse next to it. I noticed that her hands began to tremble behind her back, clenching tightly until her fingers turned white. She seemed to have stopped breathing completely.

"Sera?" I asked in concern, then again, "Sera?"

She finally turned to me with dead eyes. Flat, unemotional, and devoid of all the warmth and humor that had been present during our walk. Then she turned her back to me and the factory and began walking stifflytowards the chateau. I turned back to the factory, seeing nothing unusual. Bernard and his companion were nowhere in sight, although there were a few women and children toiling about outside, carrying in loads of material. I shuddered from the sight of them. They were all as Sera had been. Pale, thin, and completely mechanical as they dragged themselves off to work to earn enough money for a slice of moldy bread.

I felt guilty once again, this time because of my extortion of money from the managers at Opera Populaire. It wasn't that I was ignorant of the suffering of the workers of these sort of places. No, that wasn't it at all. Mostly it was because I am a selfish bastard, and for most of my life, I haven't cared.

I turned to catch up with Sera, but when I cut across the corner I couldn't see her anywhere. She had disappeared.

* * *

I spent the rest of the day in my room, contemplating my morning. Sera was obviously still very much affected by her trauma. I wanted to find this man and kill him, then maybe she could live in peace. Then perhaps she could 'bear my touch', although I am in no way ready to exercise any sort of physical and sexual relationship with her.

She is merely pleasing to me, I told myself. She does not recoil from my kisses, and yes, she seems eager to share them with me, as long as I don't go too far. I am indebted to her for helping to heal those wounds in me. The ones that I never thought possible to close. I am still unbelieving that it has happened at all, but when I close my eyes I can recall quite clearly every breath, every sigh, and every single heartbeat we shared during those stolen moments.

I went downstairs to supper, and found her already setting the places for me. The situation felt very awkward indeed. I had been kissing her this morning, and now she was waiting on me as a servant.

"Sera," I said, then cleared my throat, "Sera, would you and Peter please honor me by dining with me this evening?"

In the soft glow of the candlelight she stopped moving. Her hand was poised over my place setting, her fingers slowly releasing a utensil onto the table. She turned her head to look at me, her gaze hooded and withdrawn.

"I would rather not," she said quite coolly, then returned to her task.

"Please, Sera. I promise there will be no pressure. Just sit with me, you and Peter," I reached out to touch her, then stopped myself. "Nothing inappropriate. You have my word."

She weighed my words, obviously intent on giving me another refusal.

"You have my word. I had hoped to not be alone again tonight."

She looked at me then, wariness in her expression. I nodded at her slightly, telling her I meant every word.

"Very well," she sighed, but I could tell she was far from pleased.

She returned with a grumbling Peter in tow, who looked as if he had been licked with the rough tongue of a cow. His hair was spiked in the center, and veered off to the right. His face had been scrubbed clean, and no doubt behind his ears as well.

Sera did not engage in conversation with us that evening, allowing me and Peter to make the most of the noise and discussion.

"Do you really think _algebra_ is necessary? And _calculus_?" he lamented. "I just wished to learn arithmetic."

I chuckled, "Of course you will begin with arithmetic. Then you will become accomplished in algebra _and _calculus. Perhaps even econometrics _and_ accounting."

I could see by then that I was terrifying him. I reached around the table and grasped his shoulder.

"There is nothing I will make you attempt to learn, that I have not already built upon. Mathematics is a learning process, and practice is essential to mastering it. It is an art, and is used in all facets of life. Mathematics is the _queen_ of science. If you can master it, then you can endure anything, and you will be respected." I said firmly, then released him.

Sera was watching me now, her gaze still shuttered and distant. I smiled at her briefly, hoping to draw one from her, but she returned her eyes to her plate, moving her food around in obvious boredom.

"What else can you teach me?" Peter asked, his eyes beginning to light up with the challenge.

"Well, there are a number of the other sciences that I have been interested in, such as biology and chemistry. Mathematics is something that came naturally. I used to be an architect," I said.

"An architect?" he asked, with growing stars in his eyes. I shook my head in wonder that I could impress a boy his age. "My father worked on buildings sometimes."

I glanced up at Sera, seeing she had stopped moving her fork, but she was not looking up either.

"Did he?" I asked carefully.

"Sera told me he did," he looked pained, "I don't remember him very much."

"Perhaps we can include some architect and construction lessons. Would you like that?"

He nodded eagerly, and when I looked up to Sera, she was smiling at me, a gray and ghostly smile. I wondered after a moment if I had imagined it. We continued the meal in a loud silence.

Peter bounded out into the kitchen after supper, and Sera began to clear the table. I remained seated and when she came to my end I touched her arm.

"Leave it."

She gave me a baleful look and ignored my command, "They won't clean themselves."

"Then I shall. Leave them. I would like to talk to you."

"You promised," she whispered.

"I promised nothing inappropriate," I corrected softly, "please, I can't stand to see you like this."

"I can't discuss it." she said coldly, glaring at me.

"I'm not asking you to. I would actually just like you to listen for a moment. Can't you do that?" I pleaded. "Just listen, then I will leave you alone."

As before, she seemed to take forever to reply, as if she was considering instead another firm refusal, and a hasty retreat.

"I cannot stand to see you in such pain," I managed to whisper, reaching out to touch her wrist. I didn't touch her anywhere else, just caressed the fine bones above her wrist.

Resigned, she finally sat down in Peter's chair, pushing away the plates before her as if they nauseated her.

"You may speak to me about this now, then never again."

* * *

Hey all, thanks for the wishes for a happy anniversary...it's a good thing we celebrated Friday cause he went to the hunting camp on Saturday morning, then came home and slept from noon till four...then we had company that stayed all night. He went fishing this morning, then came in and slept till three, then finally at five our company left. Oh well! At least I got to finish another chapter. 


	28. Revelations

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

I stared at her for a long time, wondering what the best way to broach this subject would be. I am no expert on females. _Obviously. _And am in no way inclined to hurt her in anyway. I know this is a painful and humiliating subject for her. I would feel no less humiliated if she were to ask me to parade through the streets of Charpennes without my mask and wig. Being horsewhipped was more fun for me than what I was about to delve into, and I have had more experience in being horsewhipped than dealing with matters of the heart.

"Sera," I began apprehensively, "you know that I would protect you. I will never allow any harm to come to you. Or to Peter. Even Merrill for that matter, should he require my assistance."

She kept her eyes studiously on my water glass.

"You never have to fear him again," I said, watching as she glanced down at her hands. They clenched into little balls of sheened flesh.

I didn't add that not only did she have no need to fear him because he would never get close to her, but that it was because I intended on choking the miserable life from his body.

"If you wish it, you may take a few days off. There is actually something that I have been meaning to discuss with you about your employment here, but now I can see that it is not the right time."

She looked at me then, narrowing her eyes.

"What do you mean by that?" she asked suspiciously.

Hesitantly I reached across and touched the back of her hand.

"I have behaved recklessly with you, Sera. I didn't realize until today how very fragile you are. I couldn't possibly expect you to remain here with me after I have dishonored you."

"You haven't," she said quietly.

"Haven't I?" I shot back, pushing out of my chair. "I'm your employer, and I've been acting like an impassioned schoolboy. I should never have kissed you, or you me. It makes me no better than...than him."

She started to cry, and I knew then that I had hit very close to home. It sickened me, both that she thought that my intentions had been purely sexual, and that I had indeed been tempted by her sweet mouth.

I knelt down beside her, taking her hands in mine.

"I cannot deny how much pleasure your kisses have given me," I whispered, "I cannot deny that every time I think of you my heart races. What I will not do, though, is disrespect you, and I will not hurt you. My intentions are unknown, even to me at this moment, but I would very much like it if you would stay here and work for me. I promise I will behave," I said softly, hoping with all my might that I could keep such a promise.

"You haven't dishonored me, it is I. I am unworthy of you. I am filth," she spat, "I am nothing."

I sat back in shock. How on earth could this woman believe such a thing about herself.

"No. You are wrong," I said forcefully, "you are courageous and strong. You are protective of your brother, and you are sweet and innocent, _yes_, Sera, do not give me that look. You are _innocent_ of all that you have endured."

I brought her hands to my lips, kissing them instead of daring to touch her anywhere else. I thought of something then, that I could relate to her with her. Something I had not thought of for years. It no longer bothered me. I had killed my tormentor, and in fact, he had barely begun with me when I strangled him to death.

"I've never told anyone this, Sera. In fact, there has never been anyone_ to_ tell. When I was young, a little older than Peter, I was captured by gypsies for stealing food," I whispered the words to her, shamed more about the part leading up to the story, than the actual murder itself, "they made me do performances for them. I was to pose inside a coffin, and use ventriloquism to entrance the crowd."

I dared to meet her eyes as I spoke. She was absorbed in my every word, her mouth parted softly in anticipation I'm sure of a wonderful story about my boyhood.

"I was to take off my mask at the end of each performance, so that I could show them, 'The Living Corpse', or sometimes as I was called, 'The Devil's Child'."

"Oh, Erik," she breathed, her eyes filling with pity. I turned from them, shaking my head at her.

"No, do not, _do not_ look at me in that way. I have no need for pity and empathy. It was shortly before I left that hell, _my cage_," I spat, "when I committed my first murder."

"Your...first?"

I looked at her then, seeing she was still very aware of my story, but her expression was again guarded. I looked back at our joined hands.

"Durrikin, my _master_, kept the key to my cage. If I wished to be released, he said, then all I had to do was ...was allow him to...," I broke off, then leveled a stare at her.

Understanding dawned in her eyes, and they again filled with pity.

"I killed him, before he ever lay a hand on me. I choked the life from him, Sera, and I swear that if any man ever harasses you, or even _slightly annoys_ you, he will bear the brunt of my anger," I said harshly.

She stared silently into my eyes for what felt like forever. I waited nervously for her approval, or her revulsion of me to begin. Unconsciously I had been squeezing her hands, and released her when she grimaced and flexed her fingers.

"How old were you?"

"Only a year, maybe two, older than Peter," I said slowly.

"And for your second, Erik? Your third? How many men _have_ you killed?" she asked quietly.

"I...I cannot recall," I stuttered.

"_You cannot_ _recall?_ The lives of men you have taken, and you cannot recall how many?" she asked, disappointment evident in her tone.

"No. Not the numbers. Their faces, I see quite clearly. Each night I close my eyes, and I can see," I said roughly. "I can see."

"And the 'fate worse than death' for the young ballet corps? Do you see them as well?" she asked coldly.

I felt my heart sink, and my veins turn into ice water. Yes, surely if she had cut me, I would have not bled, it would have merely been frozen pale liquid that came from my body.

"There was never, _never,_ anything inappropriate during my years there, with_ any_ ballet corps," I said furiously. "Where did you hear that rumor?"

"My father," she said frostily.

"Your _father_," I roared, "was no doubt repeating what he had heard, which was mostly lies, from those flighty little nobodies. I have poured my heart out to you here, and you still believe that I could do something so heinous?"

"I never believed any of it," she said angrily, "until you yourself confirmed that you have killed."

"Dammit, I _have_ killed, to protect my life, to obey commands of the Sultan and his wife, and to preserve my freedom. What do you think would have happened if they had discovered me? They would have thrown me in another cage, Mademoiselle, and this time they would have executed me. Not because of my crimes, but because of this!" I raged, then pulled the mask from my face. I pressed my face very close to hers, forcing her to look at me, to see the ugliness that had forced me into ostracism for my entire life.

"If they had seen this," I shouted, "they would have _displayed _me again. _In a cage._ 'Come, Ladies and Gentleman,' I sneered, " 'come and see the monster', 'come see the hideous beast', the 'living breathing demon'. Then they would have publicly executed me, and my rotting corpse would have been displayed morbidly for all to see! Would you rather that have been my fate? Or had I politely declined the Sultana, she would have simply had _me_ executed instead. _Would that have pleased you Sera?"_

"No," she whispered, "no."

I released a deep breath, looking down to see that instead of holding her hands, I was squeezing her legs viciously. I released her at once and replaced my mask.

"I'm sorry Sera," I said gruffly. "I am quite inept at quarreling. I have never actually had to argue with anyone before."

She raised her brow at me, "Never?"

"Not even once. I have been alone my entire life. I have preferred it over the rejection and humiliation I was forced to endure when I actually have lived among people. It isn't worth it. At least, it wasn't, until I met you."

"What about Merrill?" she asked hesitantly.

"Merrill does not argue. Merrill does as he is told, like a good little accountant," I said wryly.

"You frighten him."

"Ah, yes. That is exactly my point. I frighten him, terrify him actually, yet I have never done anything to earn such a hold over him," I said caustically, "If I were a normal man, then he would never have spared a second glance at one of my tirades."

"You do not frighten me," she whispered proudly.

I smiled at her, "Ah, Mademoiselle, you wound me. The great Phantom subdued by a mere girl."

"Only a mere girl?" she asked, her eyes lighting up a little.

How I longed to lean forward and reward myself with her lips! I wanted it, and briefly thought she did as well. Instead I took her hands in mine and kissed them. The flesh felt in ordinarily smooth beneath my lips, and I restrained myself from giving anything other than something chaste and innocent.

"You are indeed more than a mere girl," I said huskily, "far more indeed."

She began to blush, and I felt the desire for her once again mount inside me. She took my breath away when her face became flushed, and her lips parted. Her lids would lower, almost as if they were too heavy to hold themselves open any longer.

I stood and offered her my arm, then escorted her from my home to her front door.

"Are you really going to do your own dishes?" she asked worriedly.

I smiled in the darkness, "Every last one."


	29. Crossroads

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

_Sera_

Confusion and unease kept me awake for the better part of the night. I stood in my kitchen, gazing across the distance between me and Erik's chateau, feeling swamped by a thunderstorm of emotions. I felt ashamed of myself for ever comparing him to Bernard, but how could I help it? Bernard had been kind and generous enough to allow us to live here, and at first I had thought his intentions were less than honorable. I had been right, but for six months, he had never even hinted at something inappropriate. I had told myself that I was just imagining things, that the terror from the night at my stepfather's had just surfaced, and I was being irrational.

Then things had changed, and I knew my instincts had been right. Hide, protect yourself, don't let anyone in. My instincts were screaming at me now, but for an entirely different reason. I wanted to cross the distance between us, to _let_ him protect me, to _let_ him hold me. Yet what would I be running _into? _The arms of a murderer and extortioner? Or the gentle and lonely man that I had been caring for?

I was terrified of accepting his offer and taking a few days off. What if he didn't allow me to return? I needed this job terribly. If I had to return to the factory, I felt as if I would die. Peter working here for him made more money in a day than I had in nearly a month. I knew it was because he felt sorry for us, yet I didn't dare correct him.

I had been disillusioned to believe that the tales from the Opera Populaire had been pure fabrication. Some of them may have been, but I had heard numerous reports of people disappearing inside, and of bodies turning up mysteriously. Yet I could see the wounded animal inside Erik, the Phantom. I could see it inside, and imagined it viciously attacking anyone who dared to threaten him. I could see the hurt and pain that he had endured his entire life, and what it had made him.

I wondered what had happened with Christine Daae, which had undoubtedly been the keystone in his exile from Paris. She had been the uprising soprano, and the papers had hinted of a shocking love affair between the beautiful singer and the hideous beast that dwelled in the catacombs of the theater.

I caught a shadowy figure walking along the edge of the chateau. I relaxed when I saw that it was him, leading Peter's mare down toward the street. As usual, he was dressed in all black, though I caught a glimpse of the ivory silk lining of his cape as he adjusted something on the saddle, then mounted, going in the direction we had taken our walk in this afternoon. I wondered what he could be doing out this time of night. With a sigh, I turned from the darkness.

I lay on my bed, finally drifting off as the first light of dawn broke over the horizon.

* * *

I did indeed take the next two days off. During which I did not see another glimpse of him. Not even one, and I couldn't describe the way in which I missed him. Peter was my only contact with him. I managed to convey the message that I would be taking his offer, and that I appreciated his kind words. Peter came in each afternoon, fairly exuberant about his lessons. He had mastered Napier's rods, and Erik had given him an abacus to practice on. He even practiced it at dinner, sliding the beads across the wires until he was satisfied he had memorized each configuration. I honestly had no idea what he was doing, but it kept him occupied and out of my hair.

At the end of my second day, Peter helped me clear the table, then began to gather a quilt in his hands and move towards the door.

"Aren't you coming Sera?" he asked.

"To hear him play?" I returned, avoiding his eyes. "No. Not tonight."

He left me there to contemplate my decision. Was I retreating into myself again? I did this often, usually after one of Bernards' visits. But it had been two months since his last one, and he had not completed his assault. Erik had stopped him. _He had stopped him. _God if I could ever take comfort in anything, it was that. That made it three, almost four months since my last attack. He had never been regular about his demands.

When I had seen the warehouse yesterday, I had begun to feel frozen inside. How could I walk down the street laughing, after all that had happened? How could I have been so absorbed in him, that I didn't even realize what route we had taken? Was I really that blind?

I buried my head in my hands, sinking onto my stolen furniture. Other than being obnoxious and irritating, he had never hurt me, or Peter. Or Eleonore. Even when I had deserved at least a reprimand, for being cruel, he had not said a word. Somehow that made what I had said worse. Because he hadn't even defended himself.

_He had lived in a cage. _One by force, and one by his own making. Perhaps they were both the result of hate and ignorance. My mind struggled to comprehend that. I imagined people turning in fear and hatred from Peter, even for his small abhorrence. I shook my head at such thoughts.

I couldn't make up my mind. I had to know more. If he would just_ tell _me, then maybe I could decide. I finally lay down in my narrow bed, wishing that somehow he was there, holding me as I drifted off. In the darkness I could ignore everything about him. Everything that I didn't want to hear, or know about. In the darkness, I was finally able to find peace, and dreamed of the gentle Erik, who was valorous and honorable. Erik, my protector, who would slay my dragons, with half the face of a demon, and the other half an angel.


	30. Lessons and Dreams

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

_Sera_

There was no denying my attraction to him. No denying it at all. That was not the problem. In fact, when I looked at him, or even thought about him, I felt the dizzying and unfamiliar sensations that I had finally identified as desire. It amazed me that I could feel such an emotion, and that a man with such a fearsome presence could elicit such a response. I wanted to kiss him again, and yet, knew that we shouldn't.

I felt like I was on a precipice, and if I nodded my head towards him, giving my acquiesce, then I would plunge headlong into the dark pit surrounding his heart. If I took a step away, I would be in even further peril, without the veil of his protective arms around me. I knew that if I took the first route, it would undoubtedly lead to a broken heart.

I had never been in love before. I didn't know if romantic love was even real. Surely I felt familial affection and loyalty toward Peter, if one could call that love. But the romantic things that I had dreamed of as a young girl? They had died one night in my bed, three doors down from my mutilated brother and one from my mother's morphine soaked mind, used to keep away the pain of having every tooth in her head rattled loose, as well as her jaw snapped open from the force of a boot between bloody lips.

No, romantic moonlit strolls, waltzing in beautifully decorated ballrooms, and picnics after church on Sunday were not meant for me. Even if my father had lived, I doubted I would have been courted so gallantly. I most likely would have married a shopkeeper, or a dock worker. Perhaps I would have even married a factory man, and would have rubbed his tired feet when he came home every night. I would have tended his wounded hands, sore and bleeding from running beneath the press of machinery, or soothed him when he lost a limb or digit of a finger from a careless mistake. Such accidents were an everyday occurrence in factory work, and thousands of children and women were forced in to permanent beggars because of them. Children begin work in the factory as young as six, and are usually maimed to the point of uselessness by the time they leave. Even if the machines do not get them, the demanding labor can change their bone structure, and the overmaster can beat them mercilessly, causing emotional and physical scarring.

For the women it is no better. If the injury is horrid enough, she won't even be able to resort to prostitution as a means of getting by. Some did, and they were the cheapest and became the most unclean in the city. I shuddered, remembering the cries that were always audible inside the long building. If someone was late, they were beaten. If they fell behind, they were beaten. Never an hour or more went by during the day without someone screaming in pain. I had not escaped the lash myself.

I was in the kitchen preparing his breakfast that morning when he came in behind me. I jumped, startled at his entrance, then gave him a nervous smile. He was unfastening the sleeve on his cuff, as if prepared to delve into making his own breakfast.

"Good morning," I said softly.

He grunted at me, then leaned against the counter behind me. I could feel his eyes on me, and I knew that I was blushing, but I turned back around to finish his meal.

"Thank you for allowing me to take off," I said, "I never had such a luxury before."

"You may take off anytime you like," he said politely. "you will always have a home, and will always have a job here."

"Thank you," I said over my shoulder.

I poured the flour mixture into a bowl and stirred, adding egg and milk as I did so. By the time I had finished mixing the batter together, I heard the door swing open as he left the room.

After a tense breakfast, Erik retreated back to his room, and I took the time to clean up all the messes he had made in my absence. He was not a very good housekeeper, I thought ruefully. The promised dishes from two nights ago were the only thing that he had in fact cleaned. Everything was stacked neatly in the kitchen, but he hadn't bothered to empty anything from the plates. I tookthe scraps outside and tossed them across the street, easy fare for a hopeful stray.

Peter came in after his chores in the stable for his lesson. I followed him into the library before Erik arrived, nodding in approval at the changes he had made. There was a new desk in here, as well as several volumes of books filling the shelves. Peter told me that his shipment had arrived, and he had helped him carry in the books. There were still mountains of them everywhere, and when Erik came into the room he froze.

"If you tell me how you'd like these organized, I can do it later," I offered.

He looked at me in such relief that I laughed.

"I feared I would have to tackle it," he said solemnly, but I could tell he was laughing inside. The atmosphere in the room finally started to thaw. "I think perhaps we could ignore you if you'd like to start now."

So he showed me the different titles, telling me where he preferred his classic literature over his professional textbooks. He had mountains of each, as well as numerous essays and thesis on various topics, ranging from evolution to music theory. I wiped each volume down, as well as the shelf before I stocked it, listening with half an ear to Erik talking about theorems and algebraic formulas. I was lost at, 'Today we'll talk about...', but I still thrived just hearing his voice. I could probably have paid rapt attention, learning everything as well, if all I had to do was concentrate on that voice.

"Linear equations are the simplest to solve, of all the mathematical problems. They are straightforward, make absolute sense, and are used quite often to figure unknown variables, even in the real world," he was saying.

Peter was sitting beneath his hulking frame, writing down several numbers that Erik was repeating over his small shoulder. Erik's hand was braced against the desk, and occasionally he put a hand against Peter's back, telling him to do something differently. Most important, Erik was touching him, and Peter wasn't paying him any mind. He was standing behind him, and he wasn't turning his face in fear. Instead, his one eye squinted ferociously at the page when he made an error, and his small hands darted frantically around to grab the eraser for correction.

"Now remember what I told you about your signs," he said firmly, and I watched as Peter again reached for the eraser, doubtless to make another correction.

He pushed away from the desk to grab a sheet of paper.

"Finish these, then you may have a break," he said, sliding the page across the desk.

Peter did not even glance up at him as he continued on the page he was currently on. Erik turned around to see me watching, and I beckoned him over to my place across the library.

"How did he learn arithmetic so fast?" I asked, amazed.

"He already knew it. He just didn't know it," he said, explaining when I gaped at him. "He spent a lot of time alone while you worked. He does it on his hands. Let me show you."

He took my hand in his, and tapped out a rhythm onto the back of it. I stared at him in stupor, distracted by his hand against my own.

"You cannot see it?" he asked, "I've just multiplied forty times thirteen onto your hand. It's a trick that has been around for centuries. I have no idea where he picked it up, but he has a good head for mathematics."

I shook my head at him, smiling. I had no clue what he was talking about, but I let him continue to hold my hand in his, still with our palms joined, and his other hand pressed over the back of mine.

"You look ravishing today, Sera," he murmured, stroking my hand with his fingers.

I felt my face flush, and began to feel a low ache in the pit of my stomach. I couldn't speak, I could only stare into his eyes, mesmerized by the softness of his gaze. I realized suddenly that I had memorized every line on his mask, every beautiful pale inch of it was firmly entreated into my mind, and I no longer thought it odd at all. It was as much a part of him as anything else. His hands, his eyes, his lips. Even the hair was suited, although his own light brown hair was attractive in its own right. The color, the soft texture. Over half of his own hair was full and normal, the other side, just along his temple towards the back of his head was bare.

He caught me giving him a once over and raised his brow at me. I think if possible I turned even redder, but I knew he wasn't angry. I have seen his anger, and this was more of a curious gaze.

"You are too kind," I finally said, "I thank you."

He released my hand slowly, letting his palm slide over it until his fingers trailed away from the tips of mine.

"Could you run an errand for me today?" he asked, stepping away from me and resuming his usual aloofness.

"Of course."

He pulled a small envelope out of his overcoat and handed it to me, "Could you see that this is delivered? It's to Eleonore."

"She'll be delighted to hear from you," I said cheerfully.

Again, he grunted, something that I was coming to recognize as a sign of his reluctance to venture into a certain topic. I had no idea why my 'good morning' had prompted such a response, but I had a pretty good one why the subject of Eleonore was still bothersome to him.

I left them alone in the library, walking down towards the village, thankful that the factory was in the opposite direction from town. Halfway there I was able to summon a hack to take me the rest of the way. I wouldn't have to travel all the way to Lyon for this, but I was determined to go anyway and finish gathering my dresses. I only had three left, and I was eager to see what they looked like.

I dropped the letter off at the Post, then rode into Lyon to the dressmakers shop.

She again looked at me condescendingly, saying that my dresses were all ready. I don't know why I did it, but I looked again at that green gown. I shouldn't have even said anything, because I wasn't going to ever wear it, and I really couldn't afford it right now, but it beckoned me. I touched the sleeves again, admiring the texture and shape.

"It would suit your eyes," she said grudgingly.

I turned to look at her, "You think so?"

"Bah!" she muttered, "This is what I do, no?"

She pulled the dress from the mannequin and ordered me to strip down. When she saw that I again wasn't wearing a corset, or even proper petticoats she started to grumble.

"Why I waste my time on you, huh? You too skinny, flat, flat chested," she said brashly.

Her wordless assistant helped me into the dress, as she moved around me poking pins into the dress expertly. I half expected her to stab me with one, but she didn't. She was probably afraid it would ruin the dress. Finally, several alterations later, they allowed me to look.

"Ah, Mademoiselle Tremaine, it is a shame that you have lived such a hard life. You have the elegance for the nobility of France!" she exclaimed.

I felt my heart grow lighter at her sudden praise. I did indeed look different. I didn't look _quite_ so flat chested in it either. This style of dress was made for sweeping across ballrooms, for attending those operas and plays that Erik had been speaking of. In disappointment I sighed heavily.

"I'm a housekeeper," I said bitterly, "what would I do with a dress like this?"

"Ah, Mademoiselle, if you were to wear this dress, your new rich employer would make you his mistress, then you could go anywhere you pleased!" she chided.

"I doubt that," I said skeptically.

They finally helped me out of the dress and back into my own clothes. Before I left, the seamstress grabbed my arm.

"If it will change your mind, I will lower the price. Just for you, Mademoiselle," she offered.

"Well I...," then I broke off. Could I? Could I take such a dress, knowing it would never be worn?

Before I could change my mind I agreed to it, and promised to come back within the week to pay for the dress. I clutched it to me the entire ride home, dashing into the cottage to put it in the very back of my armoire, where I knew that it would hang forever.


	31. Bloody, Bloody Hell

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

Two nights ago I broke into the warehouse at the end of my block. It appeared to be completely empty, except for the small office that sat high above the work floor. Silent machines, long since out of date and riffled for parts, stood in a jumble in long rows down the ware house floor. The office on the second story afforded a view of the entire warehouse, no doubt where some overzealous supervisor stood to issue commands to the slave drivers, directing them onto which child needed beating at that particular moment.

It was obvious someone had been there recently. The candles were still soft from heat, and the sickening smell of blood, burned flesh, and sexual release was everywhere. Blood covered a small mattress in the center of the office, some fresh, some days, even months old. My hands clenched in rage as I wondered how much had belonged to Sera. She hadn't deserved this. She certainly had not deserved me and my obscene affections,_ but this? _No one deserved this.

I left the room feeling nauseated by what I had witnessed. Certainly I had seen victims of unconsensual sex before, but never this degree of torture of a woman. Never this, and hoped to see it never again.

Tonight I was making plans on going back. I had observed Bernard's schedule yesterday, and knew that like most overmasters', he would be a schedule oriented man. I discovered easily enough where he lived, and what time the factory released him. I would not think about the consequences of my actions. I would do what must be done, and decide later what I would tell Sera. She deserved to know his fate, did she not? Or would that make me more of a monster in her eyes? That was perhaps the most troubling thought about my mission. What would she say?

I stayed in my room when I could, expressing my grief and impending blackness through music. I even dismissed Peter from his lesson that day, giving him and myself a reprieve. He seemed content enough to go ride his mare, under the strictest of warnings to keep her at a walk. Sera had seemed incredibly upset that I would continue to let him ride after what happened to me, but I assured her that it had been entirely my fault. That Peter should learn from this never to let his guard drop during the most uneventful of rides.

I tried not to think about what I was preparing for. Murder again.After all these months of peace, I was going to go back to the way I had been. I was in no way prepared for the heartless monster that would take control of me again. I was in no way prepared for the look in Sera's eyes when I told her what I had done. But it was the only way, I convinced myself. To erase that pain in her eyes, to relieve her of her fears. Surely if Bernard died, just as Durrikin had, then she would feel a relief. I prayed that was what she would feel anyway. Not contempt. Not fear.

As darkness descended I ignored Sera's call for supper, hoping she wouldn't come upstairs. She didn't, and at seven I left the house out the library doors, hurrying down to the factory. I saw through the tired pilgrimage from the open doors of the factory that he was coming out as well. Behind him, a young, very young, girl stumbled along, being yanked unmercifully by her thin arm. Her bedraggled appearance resembled Sera's, except her sack dress was made of blue, and she had long unclean blond hair. As I watched, he pulled her into the warehouse, shutting the door behind him. I had disabled the lock permanently the day before, and hoped there wasn't some other way to lock it. I hadn't known if he would take another girl before I got to him, and had hoped he wouldn't.

I waited impatiently for the throng of workers to clear so I could cut across without notice. It was well before that happened when I heard her screaming. The workers did not even stop. They did nothing, not even glancing in that direction as they fanned out down the street, trudging in various directions towards wherever home was. Even the children continued on, some of them looking bruised and gaunt.

I waited awhile longer before ducking my head and going across. Surely if they weren't stopping for her terrified pleas, they wouldn't notice me. I slipped through the door with ease, grateful that it hadn't made any racket. I doubted he could hear anything over the whimpers and cries above me. I slipped the rope from my shoulder to my hand, and in the other withdrew the knife that lay against my tailbone.

When I finally made it up the creaking stairs, she was still whimpering. I could see part of her bare leg through the door, and watched in disbelief as he turned a candle over and hot wax spilled onto her flesh, then ran the flame along her leg.

She cried out again, and I could bear no more. I saw only Sera lying there, and nothing else.

The lasso sailed over his head, where he was bent over her naked body. His trousers were down around his feet, and he stumbled backwards when I yanked him towards me.

"Remember me? You disgusting bastard," I snarled in his face, "you deserve the same treatment you have given these women."

I shoved the knife roughly against his sac, pleased when I saw terror leap higher into his eyes.

"What are you, a _folle?" _he whispered.

"Manly fetish is the last thing on my mind, I assure you," I said silkily.

I tightened the noose, then without looking, called over to the girl, "Mademoiselle, are you able to dress yourself?"

"Cunt," he grunted at me, right before I choked him to unconsciousness.

I let him slump to the floor, tucking my knife back into my breeches.

"Mademoiselle?" I asked.

She was still lying on the cot, her eyes glazed with pain and fear. Her bare body was covered in burn marks, from her hands to her shoulders, and from her neck to her toes. Most would heal with time, but like Sera's hands, hers had seemed to melt slightly. They were misshapen and tapered unnaturally.

I picked one up, seeing the fresh burns on her.

"Mademoiselle?" I whispered, but she remained unresponsive.

I took my cape off and covered her with it.

"You are safe. Do you understand? Do you speak French?" I asked, then guessing, "English?"

Her eyes finally turned to me, widening when she saw the mask.

"English? I am English," she said softly.

No doubt. I helped her into a sitting position, shielding Bernard's body from her view. He wasn't making any noise behind me, and I had no intention of letting him rise.

"Can you dress yourself? You're safe now," I said gently.

She nodded, huge tears rolling down her cheeks. I turned my back as she composed herself, watching Bernard's fat body twitch.

"Is he dead?" she asked from behind me. Her voice was filled with anger and hate.

"No," I said, wondering if I still could do this. Sera would probably not approve, even after all that had happened. I worried that she would fear me again.

"Are you going to...," she asked.

"I don't know," I said hoarsely. Could I take another life? Just one more? What then? Would it always be just one more for me?

I crouched down next to him, trying to decide his fate. If I let him live, this would continue. If I killed him, I would descend back into the hell I had always been in. I took the knife from my waist and pressed it against his thick neck, drawing a river of blood. He came awake instantly, clutching onto my hands.

"You folle," he whimpered, "you can't kill me."

I pointed the blade towards his jugular vein, putting immense pressure there.

"If you continue this treatment of ladies, Bernard, I will very much kill you," I ground out, hating myself for the weakness, "I have already promised you a slit throat, have I not?"

I twirled the blade against his flesh, feeling the hardened cartilage of the artery beneath the steel.

"I will let you live, for now...," I began, but was interrupted by a scream.

"No!" she shouted from behind me, then shoved against my arm, piercing the artery.

"God, no!" I whispered, horrified, but it was too late. His warm blood spilled onto my hands, and he grabbed more forcefully against my arms, slapping frantically until his life slipped away. His life in my hands. Somehow out of all the killings, this one would remain with me more than any other.

I sat there in stupor, staring at his lifeless eyes. They gazed back at me, vacant, and yet I had no desire to close them. The sickening smell of blood was all around me. I had never been fond of this method of killing. It was too close, too personal. I left the knife in his throat as I stood up, blood dripping from my fingers onto his outstretched legs. I noted absently that he was wearing nothing, not a thing from the waist down, and I looked away.

She was staring at him as well, shock on her face.

"Mademoiselle?" I said hoarsely.

She jerked her gaze back at me, then stood shakily.

"My cloak, please," I said absently.

She merely stared at me, her hands clenched around the dark garment. I stepped out to take it, blood brushing onto her dress as I did so. She stepped away from me, averting her eyes from both of us. I wiped what I could of the blood off, then threw the useless garment over his body. Maybe he would be found someday.

"Do you have somewhere to go?" I asked softly.

"I've been sleeping here," she whispered.

"Here?"

She nodded, then gestured to the small room.

"Here," she said vacantly.

"Come with me," I said, "I have a housekeeper who can tend to your wounds."

She looked at me warily, then began to shake her head.

"You cannot stay here with a corpse. The police will eventually come."

"What will you tell them?" she asked, panic in her voice.

"I have no intention of talking to the police," I said softly, "but they will come for the body."

She stared back at the covered form of Bernard, and I recognized the trembling that began anew.

"He can't hurt you anymore," I said, "and I have no intentions either. Please, come with me."

I was finally able to lead her out of there, and down the street. We walked in silence towards the chateau, under the cover of absolute darkness. I stopped in front of my estate.

"This is my house," I gestured to Chauvin, "that is my housekeeper's. Her name is Sera Tremaine. Do you know her?"

Her eyes widened, and she nodded her head slightly.

"She used to work at the factory. She disappeared one day. We all thought he had killed her," she said shakily.

"She is recovering," I said, and led her up to Sera's door.

I knocked, and heard Peter call through the door, "Who is it?"

"Erik," I said gravely.

The door opened to Peter's exuberant smile, and Sera peering out at me. I stepped back to admit the young girl.

"Rachel?" Sera whispered incredulously.

She looked between me and Rachel, obviously wondering what had happened.

"Your hands," she mumbled, looking down at the girl's hands. She closed her eyes, and for a moment I feared she would collapse, "my replacement," she whispered, tears streaming down her cheeks.

I tucked my own stained hands behind my back, feeling raw and vicious inside. I felt incredibly close to tears myself, and only wanted to retreat to the solace of my room. I moved back through the door, avoiding Peter's eyes, hoping Sera wouldn't hear as I left. I was halfway across the estate before I heard her calling to me. I stopped, feeling cold and empty inside as she ran toward me.

"Erik?" she whispered, "Erik what have you done?"

I set my face very close to hers, so I could see her eyes in the moonlight.

"I became what you hate, Sera. I became the monster."

I turned around and left her standing there, willing my heart to simply give out. I went into the music room and sat at the organ, playing the ivory keys with my blood soaked fingers, allowing the life of Bernard to pour out from my hands into my music. I didn't understand how I could feel this empty inside, yet the power and passionate song that had buildt in my mind was coming out. It was a very long time before I ever moved.


	32. Hope for Erik

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

_Sera_

I sent Peter to stay in Eleonore's cottage for the rest of the evening. Rachel Moore, possibly only about fifteen years old, had ran away from London about a year ago. She had foolishly fallen in love with a young British soldier, and had traveled all the way to Lyon, hoping to join his regiment before he left the country. When she arrived here, he was gone. Fearing her family would not take her back after she had disgraced them, and knowing she didn't have the money to return anyway, she was stranded in a foreign country, no general knowledge of the language spoken, only that if she fell behind on the spools, she would be whipped.

I hadn't spoken to her much, and would not call her my friend. She had been a defiant girl when I left the factory two months ago. Looking at her body, I knew in what way Bernard had cured her.

"Rachel, I've prepared a bath for you," I whispered gently.

Woodenly, she rose and went into the small bathroom, shutting the door behind her. I searched through my closet and pulled out the smallest of my new gowns. I didn't think it would fit her, but her dress had been ripped far to often to be called decent.

_Erik. _What was I going to do about him? He had looked so dead inside when he had spoken to me. His voice had been as flat an unemotional as possible, his eyes empty and haunted. I hadn't yet confirmed that Bernard was dead, but surely that was what he meant. I couldn't help but feel guilty at the relief that I felt.

_'I became the monster'._

He wasn't a monster. I would never see him that way. He wasn't. I buried my face in my hands, massaging my temples from the fierce headache that was beginning to plague me.

The door to the bathroom finally opened, and I handed the gown to Rachel's shy outstretched hand. The door shut again, and she came out moments later, pale and tired looking.

"Rachel, can you tell me what happened?" I asked softly.

She shook her head, "No. _No."_

"What about after. I have to know...is he...?"

She looked at me with bleak eyes, "Yes."

"How?" I asked weakly.

"Your employer...," she began, and I closed my eyes.

She started to cry, and I leaned over to embrace her shoulders. She caught sight of my hand, and held it up against her own, then cried harder.

"We never helped you...," she sobbed, "not once."

I brushed away tears impatiently, no longer in the mood for crying.

"Tell me...," I whispered.

"He was h-hurting m-me," she managed, "and then suddenly he was gone. Your...employer..."

"Erik," I supplied dully.

"Erik gave me his cape, and he was holding the knife against his throat, threatening to kill him if he ever did anything like it again," she whispered.

'He wasn't dead by then?' I thought.

"...and I couldn't take it, Sera. I couldn't believe that he was just going to let him go, so I pushed his arm," she choked out, "I pushed his arm, and the knife went through his throat," she swallowed heavily and closed her eyes. "So much blood," she mumbled.

I couldn't believe what I had heard. Erik hadn't killed him? Yet, he had given me the impression that he had done it. He had been holding the knife, and she had pushed his arm into Bernard's throat.

"The police will come for me," she mumbled.

"No. Erik won't let them take you," I whispered, "he's a good man."

"I killed him Sera. I killed him."

"Just rest okay?" I said soothingly.

I got up and poured her a glass of brandy, something left over from the previous tenant. I knew it tasted terrible, I had tried it myself, but after a few swallows she was encouraged to lie down in Peter's bed.

I stepped out the door and ran barefoot across the yard to Eriks'. The sounds of the organ could be heard quite clearly now, sounding both ominous and passionate in the acoustic echoes throughout the chateau. I went up the stairs to the music room, pausing in the doorway as I watched him play. Blood covered the ivory keys, as well as his hands. His eyes were closed as he played, oblivious to me, to the blood, to everything as he gave himself over to the raw energy behind the song. Each deep chord resonated with my soul, causing a deep, aching sadness to fill me. I watched him for what seemed like forever, long after he ended the song, then as he rested his hands against the top, his shoulders tight with nervous tension.

I walked to him, my bare feet making no noise on the cool marble floor. His hand were shaking, I noticed, caked in dried blood. The keys were a mess, and his eyes were fixated on them in horror.

"Erik?" I whispered, not wanting to startle him to badly.

He jerked around to face me, disbelief on his face.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, his voice gravelly and rough.

"I wanted to talk to you," I said haltingly.

He turned back towards the instrument, and I noticed he tucked his hands between his knees.

"Why?"

"Rachel told me what happened," I said, "I know you weren't the one who..."

"Does it matter? That was my intention when I left here this evening. Even if I hadn't seen the girl, I wanted him dead. Isn't that what you fear? That I am a heartless monster?" he rasped.

"I don't think you're heartless. And I've never believed you were a monster," I insisted.

He turned around to look at me, "Haven't you? You asked how man men I have killed. I still cannot honestly say, but I would guess I have executed close to fifty men. Outright murder?" he shook his head, "perhaps a half dozen. I don't know. It _all_ is murder isn't it? There was a fire in the Opera Populaire that last night. It was my doing, and I have no idea how many people died. The managers barred the doors, but I had set the fire."

"Why would they bar the doors?" I asked angrily.

"To be certain their trap for me worked. I laid a trap of my own. An escape diversion, and I was able to escape," he said, "though not before Christine broke my heart."

"Christine Daae?" I asked slowly, moving towards him.

"Yes," he stared up at me with pain in his eyes, "Yes, I tricked her, you see. I told her I was an Angel of Music, and I became her anonymous voice trainer, giving her lessons through the mirror of her dressing room."

"_You_ are the Angel of Music?" I whispered. It was who he had told me not to give affection to. The name that had caused Merrill to lose his temper as I had looked down at Erik on the bed.

"I was," he muttered, "I'm nothing now."

"You're still in love with her?" I asked hesitantly.

He furrowed his brow together, causing it to crease against the mask.

"I honestly don't think so. I don't think I ever was, really. My time out of the theater has taught me that I was very sick. Obsessed with her, making her obey me, obey my demands. I made her shine, like a beautiful angel. Her voice was, is, truly breathtaking, and I fell in love I think more with that than anything," he spoke carefully, and I knew he was telling me a great truth. "I was going to ask her to marry me. I thought she cared for me, but then...then she became reacquainted with a childhood friend, a nobleman, and I lost her. Long before I ever tried to force her, I had lost her."

"Force her?" I prompted, needing to finally hear what had happened that night. I felt like I was reaching into his soul and tearing it apart, but I had to know.

"To marry me. I was going to make her choose. Between me and him. She could have stayed with me, and he would have been free, or he would die, and I would have still kept her," he whispered roughly.

"You made her choose?" I asked

"Yes."

"And...?"

"She chose me. To save him. Not because she loved me, but because she loved him. She chose me to let him live," he sighed heavily, moving to brush away a tear, then realized his hands were covered in blood. Impatiently he tugged the cravat off and did it, then crushed the silk fabric in his hands, "I let her go. She kissed me, twice, and I let her go."

"And now she's gone and broken her promise. She's going to publish it for everyone to see. Is that right?" I asked, feeling angry at her for being so cruel.

"Not if I can help it," he said softly, "Merrill is going to deliver a missive for me. She thinks I am dead, so it will be quite a shock."

"Why dead?"

"I told them when they left, Christine and _Raoul_," he said bitterly, "that I would let them know when I had died. I came _here _to die. I thought, _hoped,_ that I would be gone by now. Instead, I have stubbornly remained. On news of their wedding, I sent the instructions I had given my...given Nadir, telling him I was dead."

I was silent. I didn't know what to say to that. He must have been a terrible wreck when he first came here, stealing my tomatoes, living in a rundown chateau with a sewage like yard and rat infested kitchen.

"I'm sorry Sera, I can't talk about this anymore tonight," he said gruffly.

"I'm sorry. That so much has happened to you. But I still don't blame you for what happened tonight," I said firmly.

He stood up, seeming to sway slightly for a moment, then looked down at me.

"I knew what I was doing, Sera. I probably would have still done it," he said softly.

"It doesn't matter," I whispered.

I reached down and took his hand, looking at the blood covering it. The red liquid had seeped up into his shirt and overcoat, probably ruining both. I led him from the music room up to his bathroom, and he followed me wordlessly, as if I had promised him a treat if he obeyed me.

I ran a bath for him, helping him out of his overcoat, waistcoat, and shirt, then sat down beside the tub as he kneeled over it and rinsed the blood from his hands and arms. I watched the play of muscles over his back, the scars from what looked like numerous lashings and beatings. One of the scars resembled a stab wound, and another looked more like a deliberate cut. His ribs were scarred as well, and there was a long white gash that ran from mid back down into the waistband of his trousers.

I reached out and touched it, trailing my finger from the beginning of the scar to the top of his trousers.

"How far does it go?" I whispered.

He smiled at me faintly, and I could see the wicked response that immediately came to his mind, but he merely said, "Only about another three inches or so."

It wasn't raised like most of the other scars. This one bore a deep grove in the center, as if he had been sliced open. The others were welts, like the few I had on my back, from being beaten with a lash, or a crop, but I didn't have nearly as many as he had, and not nearly as viciously done.

He drained the tub, then began to refill it with clean water. He sat back slightly as he waited, looking at me pensively.

"What do you think, Sera?" he whispered, almost playfully but not quite, "is there hope for me?"


	33. Intentions

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

I waited expectantly for her to respond, watching the play of candlelight over her face. It was impossibly dark inside my bathroom, and the eternally black marble tile reflected the candlelight with a strange variegated glow. I still felt out of sorts after what had happened tonight. Had I really changed my mind at the last minute? I found it impossible to believe. I had wanted him dead. It had been my sole intention upon leaving tonight, and yet I thought of Sera, and had backed out. I remember what Christine had told me, aboutmy twisted black heart, and that I was nothing but a heartless, soulless killer. I hadn't wanted Sera to see me that way, and then it was too late. Fate stepped in, and even if I hadn't plunged the knife inside, I had felt his life slip away. The old feelings had returned, of watching someone die, and knowing it was at my hand.

Despite what some believe, I have never enjoyed killing. There have been times when I have done it almost mechanically. For the Sultana, and even during some of my time in Russia. But I have never enjoyed it.

"I think you have potential," she finally whispered, giving me a shy smile.

Potential. That was something, wasn't it? Only I'm far beyond the normal age to finally be molded into a respectable man. My life is half over, and I've only kissed two women. I've spent decades alone, and I've never held a woman the way that every other man in the world has.

This woman, Sera, has been like nothing else I've ever known. I want to devour her and protect her in the same breath. I want to show her that not all men are beasts, but I don't feel like I'm qualified for the demonstration. I want to romance her and see if she is more receptive than Christine, but am terrified of the potential she has to destroy me.

She was still sitting beside me as I knelt in front of the bath, watching my every move. Her hand was still low on my spine, her fingers splayed across the scar I received from the Sultana. Only a woman, or a coward, would slash someone across the back. Beatings were different. They were about submission and fear. The scar on my back had been about control and to keep me aware that at any time she could order my death. I felt more having her hand across it than I had when I received it.

"Do you think," I said haltingly, "that you would mind very much if I kissed you?"

If I expected her to be angry for breaking my promise, I was gladly mistaken. She leaned into me, her eyes finally visible in the darkness.

"It has been _two days_," she said raggedly, "and I never wanted you to stop."

I sank back onto the floor, placing one hand around her waist and pulling her to me. She needed no encouraging. Her hands reached out and touched my bare chest, and mine to cup her head below her jaw and behind her ear. She leaned into me,our lips met, and I tasted her with as much restraint as I could manage. I sat back against the marble wall, not caring that it was like ice against my skin. I pulled her body against mine, and kissed her, making a cradle for her in between my legs. Her knee pressed against me softly, and I clenched my hands onto her shoulders to keep from pushing back.

The force of our kiss became harder, our breathing as well, and we both became absorbed in kissing as deeply and hotly as possible. Her hands touched me along my ribs, across my chest, then up around my neck. I crossed one arm behind her back, holding her to me tightly, never wanting to stop, to let go. Her mouth slanted across mine in a dozen ways, then broke away to kiss my jaw and along my left cheek. I took the opportunity to kiss her throat, following some instinct unknown to me, then bit softly against her earlobe. She stopped what she was doing and exhaled harshly against me, and I continued in wonder, more aroused by what I was doing to her than what she had been doing to me.

"Sera," I said thickly against her ear, "do I please you?"

She turned her mouth back to mine, scraping her delicate flesh across my beard before our mouths met again. Her answer was to kiss me again, her hand spreading across my chest then across my ribs. I caught her hand over my heart, pressing it tightly there, wishing she could heal everything inside of me.

I would have continued all night if I could, but suddenly I felt the spill of water from the tub, and startled her when I lunged forward to remove the stopper from the drain. I turned the water off and watched the level sink from the tub, trying to stop every male instinct that was fighting its way forward. I could hear her behind me, grabbing towels from the shelf to clean up the water that had reached the floor. I turned my head to watch her as she worked, noting that the bottom of her dress was soaked. She started to gather them in her arms, but I whispered, "Leave them. I'll deliver them to you tomorrow."

Sera raised her head to look at me, her eyes unreadable in the darkness. She stepped forward towards me, and my mouth opened to warn her away, to tell her no, but my tongue would not force the words. She stepped into the space between my thighs, her hands moving up to rest on my shoulders.

"Erik, what do you want from me?" she asked softly.

What did I want? I don't think I could have told her what it was, exactly. Not because I didn't know. I knew what I wanted, and it was _her. _Spread across my bed, looking up at me with equaled desire and passion, giving me my first taste of true intimacy and lovemaking. But I couldn't tell her that, could I? I had promised her, but had she asked for such a promise? I found myself quite willing to lay my heart open to her, but I was no longer sure what, if anything, was inside. Surely Christine had not taken it all.

"You," I said hoarsely, hoping my words wouldn't frighten her.

"I...," she began, but I pressed a finger across her lips.

"I want you, Sera. I would never force you, or hurt you, or shame you into doing anything with me, but I do want you," I whispered.

She reached up to move my hand away from her mouth, pressing a kiss to my palm as she did so. Her chin quivered suddenly, and I knew that it was difficult for her to respond.

"I've never felt...desire...for a man before. Only pain. But that is what I feel when you kiss me," she said, sounding shy and self conscious. "I can't honestly say what it is I want, or what I can give you."

"Your smile is all the gift I need," I said softly, pulling her to me, "Once we crossed that line, Sera, there would be no going back. I feel like we're pushing it already, and I don't think you are prepared to enter that territory with me. I'm the worst possible man for you and I'm the last man in the world you should trust. It would be a mistake for us to continue as we have, or continue toward anything at all."

Good grief, was that _disappointment_ in her eyes? She looked truly upset, as if she were about to _cry._ For what? _Not me. _My heart was pounding inside my chest like a drum, and my lungs were starting to work like bellows.

"Mistake?" she whispered painfully.

"_I'm_ the mistake. Not you," I said quickly, "I'm not a good man Sera. I'm certainly not good enough for you. I'm _nothing_. You need someone who can treasure you, to give you adventure and romance and...," I broke of as she started shaking her head vehemently, "...what?"

"I want nothing of adventure and romance. I believe you _would _treasure me, and I trust you more than any single person in this world," she said, "_and _I think I've already fallen a little bit in love with you."

If she had suddenly announced she was Napoleon I would not have been more shocked. I resisted the overwhelming urge to cry outand revel in those long awaited words. I fought off my growing elation, and prepared myself for a great disaster. Surely there was something else she had to say? I waited expectantly for her to break into maniacal laughter at her great joke, but she only stared at me with those beautiful dark eyes, her mouth parted softly, and exhilaration on her face.

"You can't," I whispered hoarsely. "No. Sera, _No." _

"_Why?"_ she said fiercely, "it's the truth, and you can't change it."

She leaned down and kissed me, stopping my heart and time again as she nearly pushed me into the tub behind me from the force of her kiss. I stood up to support her weight, returning her ardor with equal strength and passion. I wanted to frighten her, to make her see that I wasn't what she thought. I wasn't a misguided gentle creature who had been abused and mistreated. I was a monster, and had responded to the hostile world the only way I knew how.

She was playing with fire, and I did my best to burn her.

I pushed her out of the bathroom towards the bed, my hands caressing her shoulder and neck roughly, cupping her breast through the gown before I could stop myself. I started something then, because she came to life in my arms, her hands clutching at my shoulders blindly as she arched into me. I put my hands on either side of her waist and pulled her against me, letting her feel through her gown what she was doing to me. I hated myself for hurting her, but she had to have some sense knocked into her.

If I had doused her with cold water it could not have had a greater effect on her. She went frigid against me, pushing herself away from me as hard as she could. I let her go suddenly and she fell to the floor. I think she expected me to pounce upon her, and it hurt to watch the terror in her eyes. I stepped back from her to the desk, putting as much distance as I could between us.

"Do you see now?" I said raggedly, "I can't be the man you want. I can't."

"I know why you did that," she cried, "I know. You always have to frighten people. You won't let anyone in. _Why?"_

"Because there is nothing left inside of me. Because I'm not worthy of you, or any other woman."

She stood up finally, her breathing hard and sharp.

"I won't let you decide this for yourself. You're wrong, Erik. There are hundreds of men who worked in that factory everyday and listened to me scream, listened to Rachel scream. They never lifted a hand to help us, in any way. Did you know that's what he liked?" she ranted, "He liked to hear us scream. That's why he burned us. That's what made him feel powerful."

She crossed over in front of me, and I could see a hard glint to her eyes. She looked furious with me, and I didn't blame her. I just couldn't see how she could ever feel this way about_ me._ She deserved so much more.

"You're wrong. There is something inside. There is a good man, and I _do_ love him."

I felt the walls around my heart threaten to crack, to bury me within the confines of the rubble as well. She had given me hope, and what a joy to have someone love you. I couldn't speak the words to her. My heart was twisted inside, beating like an irregular scream, and I felt like a cad for not being able to say them back.

I didn't know if I could love again.

I thought: it had worked out so well last time, it was a wonder you should go spouting it off to every woman you meet.

No, I couldn't say the words, but I could offer her what she wanted. What she needed, and what I had wanted for more than half of my life. Someone I could be bound to for all eternity, whether or not we ever fell in love, whether or not we ever spoke again. I could bind her to me forever, and protect her with my last breath. I could offer her my wealth, my name, even if I could never give her my heart.

"This man," I said hesitantly, "would you marry him?"


	34. Obedience

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

_Sera_

I couldn't breath. Surely I had misunderstood him. Yet he was still staring at me with a dark and brooding silence, waiting for the sword hanging over his neck to drop. I knew he expected me to say no, but how could I? I had no desire to contradict my heart.

"Yes," I whispered softly, "I would."

The look of utter relief on his face was evident. I didn't see happiness there, or even a return on what I had told him I felt, but he was _relieved _to hear my reply. I couldn't help feeling another wave of crushing disappointment, but what had I expected? I should be happy that he had offered it to me at all.

"You would marry me?" he repeated hoarsely.

"A thousand times, _yes_," I smiled softly at him.

He stepped toward me suddenly, grasping my head in his hands and kissing me fiercely. I pushed up against his face, kissing him back, knowing I would never get tired of him doing that. That sudden, unexpected thrill he could give me with his lips.

"I will do everything in my power to please you," he said gruffly, breaking away from me, "I promise that I will."

"I will try my best to be a good wife," I said.

"_Wife?" _

He said the word again twice, disbelief showing in his eyes.

"I never thought to have a wife," he choked.

"I don't know that I am the best choice, but I will be loyal and honest, and I will love you," I whispered huskily.

His arms tightened around me, drawing me closer to him. He must have thought I would panic again, because he kept his lower body away from mine, holding me gently and tenderly as if I might break. He _had_ scared me earlier. Not as much as he thought, but I had felt a strange mixture of fear and desire touching him there. I had felt him. _All_ of him, and I had a sudden attack of anxiety over what he would expect of me.

As if reading my thoughts he spoke, "I won't ever force you, Sera. Never. I only want trust and affection between us, and I would die before I let anything happen to you."

Trust. Yes, I did trust him. But I didn't think he trusted me. Not for a moment. Christine Daae had obviously wounded him greatly, and I hoped that I could heal the scars she had left on his heart. Every time my hand lingered near his head I knew he feared that I would touch his fake hair. I knew he would never feel comfortable without the mask around me, yet I had seen it all and not once felt revulsion. I have seen too much true ugliness in the world to let something like that inspire fear and hatred in my heart.

I reached up to his mask, watching as he closed his eyes. My hand traced over it, across the high sculpted forehead, then down to the nose. I ran my finger half across leather and half across skin, feeling the bone of his nose beneath my fingertip. My hand trailed from the point onto his lips, touching the soft full mouth with slow and aching wonder. This was what had inspired our first kiss. Then he had said my name, and all had been lost.

"I find you exceedingly appealing," I said softly, "I have seen everything, and I desire you. You've told me a great deal about yourself, and I still want you."

"I haven't told you everything. Not nearly enough," he said urgently, "and if I did you would run from this room screaming."

"There is nothing you could say that would change my mind."

He looked as if he would accept my dare, but he shut his mouth, his eyes becoming hooded and withdrawn.

"Would you let me stay tonight?" I asked quietly.

"Stay?" he repeated dubiously.

"Just to sleep," I amended, "I'll need to return early to check on Peter and Rachel. But I would very much like to lie in your arms tonight."

"You want to _stay_ with me? The entire night?"

"Does that shock you?" I whispered, kissing him softly, "Do you think I'm being unvirtuous?"

"No." he said roughly, "No, I think you're spectacular. But I imagined that you would want to...even after we married...to sleep separately..."

"I'm not asking you to ravish me, just to lie beside me. And I think I could be persuaded to have you hold me each night...even if nothing else ever happened."

I watched him swallow convulsively, and I wondered if it was because I had hinted that we may sometime make love, or that we never would. I didn't expect he was anymore experienced at this than I was, but of course, there had been Christine.

"I'd like to...bathe first...if you'd just like to lie down. Make yourself comfortable," he said hoarsely.

Wordlessly I climbed into the bed, watching as he went to his armoire and removed some clothing before going into the bathroom and shutting the door firmly behind him.

I grinned as I heard the lock click decisively.

I picked up one of his silver pillows and breathed into it, smelling him with every inhale. I looked up into the black silk canopy above me, wondering how anyone could surround themselves with mourning colors. I hoped that I could draw him out and make him accept himself and the world around him. I knew that it should have been the other way around. The world should have accepted him long ago, and he never should have had to hide.

I was still staring at the canopy in thought when he came out of the bath. He was still wearing his mask and wig, and wore a black silk robe. I could see his bare feet shuffling toward me on the bed, and I reached out to him invitingly. He hesitated before taking my hands, placing a hip against the bed.

"Sera, I've never slept next to a woman before," he said haltingly, "If...if this..." he gestured to the mask and hairpiece.

"If you'd like to lie behind me, I won't look if you remove them. But those things don't matter to me. I cared for you while you were injured. I treated the wound above your temple. I've even seen much more of you..."

_"How much?"_

I grinned at him wickedly, "Right down to your white cotton underpants, and nothing else."

"I think you are deliberately torturing me, Sera," he groaned.

I smiled, turning my back to him and lay on my side. I could hear him moving behind me, but keeping my word, I didn't peek. When he lay behind me with all the flexibility of a plank board, I reached back towards him, pulling his arm around my waist, until we were nestled together like two spoons inside a drawer. I didn't even mind that I could feel him through the robe. No, I didn't mind, and when I moved my hips he tightened his arm around me suddenly.

"You need to be very still, Sera. Especially if all you want to do is sleep," he muttered against my ear.

I stopped moving immediately, and think I may have even stopped breathing. Was this what it would be like? To be married to him? If it was, surely I would surrender myself to him in no time at all. I was tempted even now to turn in his arms and kiss him with fierce desperation. Instead I closed my eyes and concentrated on the feelings that being in his arms brought me. I felt safe and secure. I felt aroused and anxious. I was being held by a man I loved, and I was alone in the dark with him, and wasn't afraid.

Yes, I could get used to this. Very definitely.

* * *

I woke up the next morning feeling strange. Someone was nuzzling against my neck. I could feel a tongue tracing slow delicious circles across my flesh, making fire burn inside me.

"Erik?"

He chuckled against my ear, "Were you expecting someone else?"

I opened my eyes and could see his arm beneath my neck, outstretched onto the edge of the pillow next to me. How had I gotten completely on his side of the bed? I moved my hand up to catch his, lacing my fingers with his until he squeezed me slightly. His other hand was at my hip, holding me very firmly against him as he continued to spread kisses across my neck and over my ear.

"Erik?"

"I'm here," he said ardently.

"Yes, I know," I said breathlessly, "there was never any doubt of that."

He turned me around to face him, his mask and hairpiece firmly in place. I saw intense fire in his green eyes, the left side of his face relaxed and impossibly handsome. He lowered his mouth to mine, kissing me with gentleness and passion. I sank beneath his weight into the bed, raising my neck as he pressed kisses there, then lower along the opening to my bodice. His tongue swiped across my flesh, making me nearly launch myself at him to quell the ache in my breasts. His hand was resting along my ribcage, too far from where I wanted his hands to be. I arched against him, pleading with him for something I didn't quite understand. I wouldn't find out what it was he could have given me though. He suddenly was off the bed, breathing harsh and loud with his head down toward his knees.

"Forgive me," he muttered, his shoulders tight with tension.

"Whatever for?"

He turned and gave me a rueful look, "You tempt me. Far too much."

"Isn't that what wives should do?" I asked coyly.

"I have no idea," he said quietly, "but you shouldn't be so tempting until _you_ are ready. And that will take place sometime _afterwards._"

I shivered in anticipation and wonder at his husky tone. What would I do when it came time? Or would that ultimately be my decision in any case? I closed my eyes and imagined his warm skin against mine, and was delighted to find that only full force desire hit me, and not fear.

"You should take today off. Go get everything you need for...bridal attire. Is there anyone you'd like to invite?"

I thought for a moment, "Eleonore."

"You don't have any family?" he asked slowly.

"My mother, if she's even alive, is in Paris. But I don't wish to send an invitation. My stepfather could intercept it, if _he's_ even alive. I don't know, and I'm not willing to chance it. So, just Eleonore," I said.

I was inviting her more for his benefit than mine,because I wasn't sure if he would do it or not. He could be amazingly recalcitrant when he wanted to be.

"We will wait then, until Merrill returns. I'll send your invitation along with a note for him," he said softly, "you should go check on Rachel. I'm sure she is awake by now."

I scooted off the bed and turned towards him. I rested my hands on the silk of his robe, feeling the heat and strength through the smooth fabric. He looked up at me with heavy lidded eyes, resting first on my chest, which made me blush, then slowly up to my eyes.

"You look beguiling first thing in the morning," he said seductively, "I would be honored to see it every morning for the rest of my life."

"You only have to shackle yourself to me," I said gravely, "and promise to obey me."

"_Obey_?" he repeated.

I grinned slowly, "Is that a problem?"

"I think it might."

* * *

Shame on you for not reviewing last chapter! I got you a proposal, more kisses, even a little hanky panky, and all I get is _2_ reviews! Shame, shame, shame! I should leave you hanging! LOL...

This is far from over. They still have to get married, still gotta get busy, there's going to be guests in the chateau soon...yes..._guests_, and don't think Erik will be pleased to have them. He's already bitching, so unless you want me to kill a main character...you'd best review!


	35. Bright New Things

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

_Sera_

I left him to finish dressing, slipping into the door of the cottage quietly. Rachel was sitting at my table looking at me curiously, and I blushed, wondering how long she had been up.

"How are you feeling?" I asked gently.

"How do you think?" she returned evenly.

I knew she probably wanted to be alone, so I made her some tea and went into my room to change. I needed to tell Peter about my conversation, or rather, the repeatable parts, and see if he was receptive to the idea. I had no clue if he would be angry and terrified, or happy, or not even care. His moods were often too mercurial to determine. I pulled on my second favorite dress then went out into the kitchen just as Peter burst through the door, making us both jump a foot high.

"Peter," I said sharply, "we have a guest. Try to be a little more considerate."

"You didn't wake me up," he accused, "now I'm late for chores, and Erik's going to be cross for being late for my lessons."

"I'm sure he'll give you a reprieve," I said dryly, "after you've finished in the stable, I'd like to speak with you about something."

"Why?" he asked warily, causing me to suspect he'd already done something and thought he'd been caught.

I smiled silkily at him, just telling him to come by after chores. He muttered at me before going to change his shirt then storming out the back door with equal ferocity.

"I miss my little brother," Rachel said wistfully.

"Why don't you return to England?" I asked.

She frowned, "I don't think they will accept me. My father is very strict."

"Why don't you send him a letter. Or your mother?" I smiled, "Sometimes women have ways of bringing men around."

She looked at herself in disgust, "What man will want me after this? My own family will be able to see my scars," she shook her head, "no. I can't return. I just can't."

She bowed her head and tears fell from her eyes. How could I tell her that her misfortune had led to my betrothal? Maybe Erik could offer her a place in the household. Perhaps she could just stay...until she found another occupation.

"I have to go," she whispered tearfully.

"Go?"

"To the factory. I have to go," she said softly.

"No. No you don't," I said incredulously.

She looked at me with bitterness, "I do so," she said, sounding childish.

I realized then how young she really was. I had been spoiled rotten by my father at fifteen. She had gone to work in a factory and been viciously abused.

"Stay," I whispered, kneeling in front of her, "please, just stay. We'll figure something else out. Don't return there. I _escaped_, Rachel. You can too. Come with me today. We'll go and buy you a new dress, pick out something pretty," I tucked a stray blond lock behind her ear, "we can send your family a letter. You don't have to tell them anything terrible. Just let them know you're alive. Wouldn't that be nice?"

She nodded her head slowly, her chin quivering slightly. I patted her shoulder and busied myself at the counter, talking mindlessly about various things until I knew she had settled down. By the time Peter had come in, I had distracted her by sending her to the bathroom to adjust her gown. It needed two pleats in it, and it would fit her much better.

"Peter," I said primly, "I need to discuss something with you."

He looked at me with apprehension, "What?"

I didn't bother correcting him for his rudeness. It often inspired more rudeness, and I wasn't in the mood for a battle of wills with an eleven year old brother.

"Monsieur Gervais has offered to marry me," I said quietly.

He narrowed his eye at me, as if trying to perceive if I made a joke, "Why?"

I laughed nervously, not having a clue really.

"I suppose because he fancies me," I choked.

He continued to look at me with his one blue eye, his hands clenched tightly on the table.

"What do you think?"

"I think it's fine," he finally said, "if you can talk him out of teaching me calculus."

* * *

The seamstress was delighted to see me again, and simply fawned over Rachel, declaring her a perfect figure, even if she was much too thin. She immediately had the girl out of her dress, sighing in dismay over her ruined skin.

"You should be more careful in the kitchen, girlie," she muttered, sending her assistant to the back for a bolt of blue cloth, "yes!" she declared, holding it against her blond hair.

She sent them into the back so they could have more privacy for measurements then turned to look at me.

"I need a wedding dress," I blurted out, flushing when I saw a knowing gleam in her eyes.

"The gown, it was a good investment then?" she insinuated, her hands moving over my figure animatedly.

I tried to persuade her otherwise, but she continued to laugh at me silently, causing me to turn increasing shades of red.

"We will have something for you, mademoiselle. Something beautiful, something ravishing, something..."

"Simple."

"Eh?...Simple?" she asked cautiously.

"And fast."

"The dress, it worked a little too well," she sighed, and I gave up.

Hadn't she told me I would be his mistress if I wore it? I pored through a sample of patterns until I found something I liked.

"Yes. This will work well for your little stick figure," she sighed again dramatically, as if she wished the gown had been for Rachel instead of me.

"Just have something ready at least by the end of the week," I muttered.

Rachel came out of the back, wearing my dress, modified even more by the quick assistant.

"Are you ready to go to the Post?" I asked hesitantly.

She nodded, and we walked along the street into Lyon, pausing at several window displays to peek inside.

"I haven't been out in the daytime in so long," she said softly.

"What did you do before you came here?" I asked hesitantly.

"I was in boarding school. For ladies only," she said, sighing, "I met Lieutenant Williams at an assembly hall one night, and we weren't even allowed to dance. He just sat and talked to me all night, not dancing with any other ladies, just talked to me."

"And you decided to run away to meet him?"

"It wasn't _his_ idea. He didn't even know I was coming, but I was so unhappy there. Now I wish I had never left," she said quietly.

"It will get better, Rachel. I promise," I said soothingly.

"Like you?" she frowned, "I heard you tell Peter you were going to marry...Erik...is it?"

I nodded, feeling guilty that I could be so happy when she was feeling such misery. I knew exactly how she felt.

"Is he gentle with you? When you're...," she broke off, giving me a wry grin.

"We haven't...and yes, I suspect he will be," I said calmly, feeling utter panic and excitement inside.

We continued on to the Post in silence, where she mailed a letter to her mother, and I mailed mine to Eleonore, along with a letter from Erik to Merrill. We went back out to the street and I hailed a carriage to take us back to Chauvin.

"I'm happy for you Sera," she whispered, looking out the window sadly, "I really am."


	36. Moods

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

My mind was reeling as I stared at the dozens and dozens of display cases for me. I was picking out a ring, for my intended _bride. _And this time it felt real. I had offered for her, and she had said yes. I hadn't resorted to subterfuge to gain her trust, to win her affections. Indeed, I had not asked for, and truthfully, done my best to avoid her. I couldn't honestly say what I felt for her, except an overwhelming wave of gratitude and desire. I was certainly happy that she had said yes, but I still can't believe I asked. I hoped I wasn't damning us both.

"Let me see that one," I pointed to one, relieving the shop keeper of it immediately. It was beautiful, but it wasn't _her. _It was one I would have picked out for Christine. Overly done, with too many diamonds, which I would have bought to compensate for other things. It would have swallowed Sera's hand whole.

"Useless," I muttered, handing it back to the nervous shopkeep.

He hadn't said hardly one word to me since I entered, not that I blamed him. I hadn't exactly been forthcoming with information myself, and of course there was always my appearance. At the very least he thought I was trying to hide my identity to avoid being recognized. At the most he thought I was a monster, which I am.

"Elegant. I want something alluring, something stunning. I don't need flashy, I don't want opulence," I said testily, already tired of the growing headache behind my eyes.

"Perhaps, something over here then, Monsieur?" he said meekly, moving along the wall further.

I inspected these, pleased with them more than the others. I picked out a simple square cut solitaire on a platinum band, the wedding ring to match, as well as a thicker band that matched for me. I held the three boxes in my hand as the shop keep dutifully wrote my name down so Merrill could return later to pay him. I was sometimes appalled at how easy it is to con people, but he seemed willing, and I had no intentions of duping him anyway.

I placed them into my overcoat as I left the store, occasionally checking to be sure they were still there. It felt strange, or make that surreal, for this to be happening to me. I wasn't supposed to get married. Christine had left me, and I should have been long dead by now. For all intents and purposes I wasn't, and by some odd twist of fate had found myself in the company of a beguiling and beautiful woman.

When I arrived back home, after riding the ever plodding Sunshine, or as I called her, Mila, I was not really in the greatest of moods. It was the middle of May, it was hot, and beneath the mask my skin was sweating and itchy. Not to mention that I was compelled to dress in all black. I think vampires have seen more daylight than I have in the last twenty years, and probably been in more jewelry shops as well.

I should have felt joy and relief, utter happiness. My world should have been a utopia. So why did I feel like such fraud? Maybe because I am. I'm a fraud, and Sera deserves a better man than me. I can't think straight, and if I had not been confused before, last night had certainly done it for me.

It was a moment of madness. That is all I had to say for myself over my impulsive proposal. A moment of madness, and surely the devil would come to claim me soon for taking such a sweet and tempting mirage. I felt as if someone would wake me at any moment. That it would all have been a beautiful dream, and soon I would descend back into the lonely nightmare that was my life. I hadn't slept much the night before. I was far too aware of her breathing beside me, her lovely bottom pressed against my things, her hand occasionally reaching over to brush against mine. Waking up next to her had been pure heaven. Warm, sexily rumpled, sleepy eyed, and absolutely ravishing.

As I approached Chauvin Sera appeared at the back of her cottage, walking toward the barn to meet me. She was smiling as I jumped down from the mare. Smiling in spite of the scowl I knew was lurking on my features.

"Just the man I wanted to see," she said teasingly.

"Do you need something?"

Her eyebrows rose at my short reply, but she moved closer to me and wrapped her arms around my waist. She stood on her toes, her eyes closing in a silent demand for a kiss. I obliged with a quick dry brush across her mouth, trying to move her arms, but she tightened them and frowned at me.

"What's wrong?" she asked softly.

"Nothing."

"Something is. You are obviously in a mood about something," she insisted, but she finally removed her arms. I stepped away from her regretfully, wishing I hadn't been so abrupt with her, but she was already walking into the barn, opening a stall door for me.

I removed the tack from the mare and allowed her a grateful drink before I put her in the stall. Sera was watching me carefully, her hands clasped in front of her waist as she leaned against the barn wall.

I sighed, feeling terrible for taking out my misery on her. I really had no qualms with her. She was bright, beautiful, desirous. Everything I had ever wanted. I just wasn't the man I wanted to be.

"I'm sorry," I said, moving closer to her.

"Have I done something?" she asked in a small voice.

"No. Of course not," I said quizzically, wondering what on earth she thought she could have done, "I'm just...tired," I said, lying. What could I say? That I'm an incurable grouch, and don't know how to accept good fortune when it's handed to me?

"I'm sorry if I kept you up too late," she said softly, blushing.

"Never. I'm a proverbial night owl," I said dryly.

"I've been wondering...," she began hesitantly, "about Rachel. Is it possible you might need another housekeeper?" When I began to scowl she added quickly, "Just for awhile. I don't want her to have to go back to the factory. I...,"

She closed her mouth, averting her eyes from mine. I knew what she wanted. She wanted to save the girl, the way she hadn't been able to save herself. She wanted to make sure it never happened to her again.

"Her family won't take her?" I asked cautiously.

"She doesn't know," she said, "she sent them a letter, but we won't know for several weeks, months even, about a response. She's very smart, and she says she can cook...,"

"She can stay," I interrupted flatly.

"...she can?"

"It's what you want isn't it?" I said gruffly, "I would do anything for you, Sera."

She flung herself in my arms, kissing me across my face and lips. Suddenly I was quite glad that she had come out here, if only to brighten my day, just a little. I kissed her back hungrily, harsh sounds coming from my chest as I perused her mouth of everything that I had suddenly missed all day long. I ran my fingers over her hair, not caring that I was destroying what had probably taken her an hour to fix, sending the mass of hair falling across her shoulders and down her back. I held her head in my hands as I kissed her, pushing her against the wall of the barn as I tried to drown deeper inside of her, then swept my mouth across her jawline.

God, how she could make me come undone! Just a touch, and I was smitten, eager to please her like a schoolboy. If it hadn't been for Peter's loud exclamation of disgust I would have covered her length with mine, wanting to be as close to her as possible. Hearing him, I broke away, turning back towards Atlas in his stall, leaving her like a coward to deal with her brother.

"Sera, what on earth were you doing?" he asked heatedly.

"I...uh...I was inspecting his...his collar," she said lamely.

I snickered inside the stall, probably earning a severely dirty look. I knelt down next to the horses' leg, not really noticing anything as I listened to their conversation.

"His collar?" he repeated, "with your tongue?"

I couldn't contain it any longer. I couldn't leave her out there with him alone, forcing her to fend for herself. Desperately I wanted to, but instead I called out, "Peter, could you please take the mare out to the paddock? She needs to stretch her legs a bit."

That was a bold face lie, and he scoffed, knowing it. I had just returned from a ride, what possible reason would she have to stretch her legs?

I ducked out of the stall, finding Sera still there with a tomato red face.

"We...we can't...we can't do that...," she was sputtering.

"I know," I sighed, running a hand over the left side of my face, "we should probably...show a little more restraint."

"It would be best...until...," she whispered, not meeting my eyes.

"I don't think we should be alone together...until...," I managed, "will you invite Peter and Rachel for dinner, breakfast, lunch? Everything? Have her...help you in the kitchen."

"Of course," she said softly.

"I'll do my best to stay out of your way."

I started to reach out and touch her, but changed my mind. My hand fell away to my side, and then she turned around and left me there. I heard Peter coming back through the other side of the barn, and started walking to my own house, not eager to face him either. I had went from irritated, to murderous desire, and was now back to irritated. It seems my moods often come full circle.


	37. Hurting

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

* * *

Just a little author's note: I'm going to speed things up a little bit. I'm building toward something, and Merrill is taking forever in returning from Paris...stay tuned...it could get interesting.

* * *

_Sera_

True to his word, he did not spend much time alone in my company. I showed Rachel around the house, which she walked through with awe. During Peters' lessons she put books away in the library, while I stole up the stairs to tend to his room. I would look at the bed longingly, wishing and hoping that our day would arrive, that Merrill would walk through the doors with Eleonore, and we could begin our nuptial life together. Several days passed in the same manner, where we hardly spoke, hardly touched, merely looked at each other with yearning and shy smiles, although I think it was more on my part than his. He seemed as aloof and stoic as when I first met him, and I was beginning to worry about our future.

I was able to finally take his hairpieces and have them cleaned, hopefully without his knowledge. I still did not want to think about the time I knew would come when he would see me with one.

I understood how much his appearance mattered to him, even when it was only me. There was still very much I didn't understand about the man I was going to marry, but I decided that as long as he continued to be gentle and show Peter and I the same affection and protectiveness he had displayed so far, I would be happy.

A week after our encounter in the barn I was picking clothing up from the floor of his bedroom. It seems to be a habit of his, which I find endearing now, but will no doubt find irritating after we share a room. I picked up his overcoat from the floor, and something tumbled out of the pocket. It was a small black satin box. Eagerly I picked it up, suspecting that it may be a ring. It was, very wide and large, and I knew it was his. I shoved my hand back into the pocket and came out with two more boxes. One was a solitaire diamond, the other a matching band to his. I set them on the dresser, open, looking inviting and beautiful. I longed to put it on my hand, but I didn't want to spoil it. I wanted to wait and see how he would do it. I put the boxes back and lay the coat back on the floor as I had found it.

If I expected him to pull me aside and give me the ring, I was sorely disappointed. He began wearing the coat again, and when I leaned in to embrace him, I only felt one box. I began to feel slightly nervous, because I had found them, and still wore no ring. Why wouldn't he just give it to me? Was he regretting asking? Each time I managed to steal a quick hug, I felt it there between us, somehow pushing us farther apart.

* * *

I was in the music room, looking at the windows speculatively when he came in one evening after supper. He halted in surprise when he found me there, and I could see that he was thinking of a way to leave politely.

"We're going to be married," I said quietly, "and you can't be in the same room with me?"

"Not alone," he said impassively.

I stood stonily in front of him, wondering what had happened to the ease and affection between us. Every day he seemed to withdraw a little more, as if he were facing impending doom upon Merrill's return, instead of his wedding day.

"Erik," I started angrily, then stopped. What could connect us more than this room? "Would you play for me?"

His eyebrows rose, and he moved wordlessly to the organ in front of me. I stepped around the side to sit at the bench with him. I had cleaned the blood off the keys, wincing each time I made the pipes blow, and now they gleamed as beautifully as ever.

"What would you like to hear?" he asked slowly.

"Something you've written?" I asked hopefully. I wanted to reach out to him, not only physically, but he seemed so distant. It seemed this was the only way. The night we had spent in each other's arms suddenly seemed very far away.

He closed his eyes, his fingers resting on the keys, then he started to play. It was beautiful, and passionate, and he gave himself entirely to the music. I knew the moment he forgot I was there, forgot that I even existed beside him when his shoulders relaxed, and a brief smile touched his features. The chords from the song hit me powerfully as he reached a crescendo, then came tumbling back down into a low melancholy rhythm, before ultimately picking up the harmony again, then fading away. I watched as his fingers released the last notes, the energy from the song seeming to leave him as his shoulders fell even further.

"That was lovely," I said breathlessly, but the way his head whipped around to mine you could have thought that I had shouted it at him.

His eyes were hostile as they met my gaze, and I was so startled by the intensity in them that I nearly fell back from the bench. I wondered if it was because I had interrupted some long forgotten memory, or if it was simply because he hadn't wanted to hear a compliment.

"Thank you," he said, but the words had a biting edge to them.

Quite suddenly I felt my eyes fill up with tears, but I turned away before he could see them. Why was he so angry? What had I done? I stood up quickly and moved to the door, holding my breath in painfully before I could release a sob. I felt like the world's biggest fool, for believing that he had meant the proposal. My heart was perilously close to breaking, and I desperately wanted to cry. Once I made it through the door I heard him call my name, but I broke into a run, nearly stumbling down the stairs over my gown.

"Dammit, Sera, stop!" he shouted, coming after me.

He caught me at the landing between the winged staircase, pulling my arm roughly when I tried to break free.

"Stop," he said softer now, but his breathing was harsh, his eyes still cold.

"Why?" I rasped, "Why would you ask me to marry you if you didn't mean it? You obviously regret it, so why don't you just stop pretending and tell me how you really feel?"

"I don't regret it," he said quietly, "but I think you should. I think you will, in time, regret it very much."

"Shouldn't you let me decide that?"

He shook his head, "You don't understand."

"Then tell me. I can't keep doing this. We've barely talked, we haven't touched...,"

"For good reason, and you know it!"

"...why? Because you drop your guard when kissing me? Because you lose yourself when we're being intimate? When have we had an honest conversation about our feelings for each other? I've told you what I feel. I understand if you don't feel the same...,"

"Can't."

I was silent, weighingthe word in my mind. The simple word had hurt more than anything else I'd ever felt. What did I know about this sort of thing? The only thing I had ever known was humiliation during a painful and unwanted sexual assault. Never love, never tenderness. Certainly not what we had shared.

"You can't love me? Or you can't love at all?"

I reached out a hand towards him, thumping him softly on the chest, directly over his heart where my unspoken of engagement ring was still tucked safely inside.

"You need to decide if I'm what you want. Maybe the jeweler will still let you return it," I said hoarsely, my throat aching and thick. I felt my sinuses begin to swell as another wave of tears threatened to spill forward.

I walked down the rest of the stairs alone, stopping only when his voice drifted down to me.

"What will you think of me, I wonder," he whispered, "when Christine's journals are out, and you know what I really am."

I didn't answer. If he thought I was hung up on her, he was wrong, and I would let him sit around and mope about his lost love in misery before I would respond. If the beautiful and talented Christine was what stood in our way, who am I to contradict a man's heart? What do I know of love?

I know it hurts, and I'm beginning to see why he doesn't want, or can't, participate in it.


	38. Visitors in the Library

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

The man inside me wanted her love, and to return it with ferocity. The bitter, cold, angry monster inside would not allow it. He was wounded, his heart like ice, frozen to every attempt she made to draw me out. If I could not tell her, then I would lose her. And losing her meant losing my sanity, losing myself again. She was incandescent light inside my weary soul, and I wanted to tell her that I was terrified that I was condemning us both.

When had I grown a conscience? What had happened to the selfish bastard that had existed inside me for so long? I had known during strange moments that what I was doing to Christine was wrong, and yet hadn't cared. So what had changed? Had I? It was too much to hope for.

It seemed that I was not going to be given any peace at all. If my relationship with Sera was strained now, the arrival of a couple later on that day was certainly not going to improve matters.

Sera was standing near the front entrance, giving Rachel instructions on my dinner. It appeared she had forgotten that I liked to listen in on conversations, because I had been doing it for nearly two weeks, finding the girl, Rachel, to be witty and often times sharp tongued. Sera treated her with the affection of an older sister, capable of encouragement and gentle reproofs that left me smiling despite the ache in my heart.

Did I still want her? Hell yes. What fool wouldn't? I just had a feeling that I wasn't going to get her, no matter how much I tried. Hadn't I been so confident last time? I had thought my plan would work, and it had left me heartbroken and forced into exile.

This time I had no plan, and I felt completely foolish.

"So tonight it's just going to be him?"

"Unless you and Peter would like to join him. I have no desire to do so this evening," she muttered.

I felt my heart contract painfully inside at her words. She wouldn't even grant me the presence of her company? My hand stole up to touch my heart, where I felt the ever present ring box. Why hadn't I just given it to her? I had remained stubborn, certain that she would change her mind. Yet in doing so, it seemed I had hurt her, and now I have no idea how to fix it.

"But Sera, aren't you still going to marry him? He seems so mysterious," the girl sighed wistfully, her lilting British accent sounding strange to my ears, "and such a beautiful voice. I think you should go upstairs right now and kiss him until he gives you that ring."

Did she? My brow rose in amusement. I felt a powerful clenching in my stomach, and waited anxiously for Sera's response. Would she come up here? And if she did, would I give her the ring?

"I don't think he wants me. I think maybe it's because...of Bernard...or maybe even Christine. I thought I h-had found someone, but now its becoming clear to me that I was never meant to be m-married," she said raggedly, "he just doesn't want me. No man ever will."

The words caused my heart to fall. Christ, was _this_ what I had done to her? By trying to protect her, had I nearly destroyed her? In the two and a half weeks since our encounter in the barn, I have tried to remain unaffected by her worried glances at me, then after the incident last week, by her complete and absolute refusal to look me in the eyes. I haven't succeeded in remaining impassive and neutral. My heart has been going crazy inside of me, and I haven't been able to concentrate on a damn thing. I've been rude to Peter, undoubtedly bearish to Rachel, and completely silent with Sera.

"Oh, Sera," Rachel said softly, "there's someone out there for you. Even if it isn't him. I have an older brother you know. Last I heard he was still single."

The words made my blood turn into ice. Whatever affection I had for little Rachel abruptly vanished in that moment, because I wanted to storm down the stairs and shake her. There would be no other man for Sera. Over my dead body.

"No," she finally replied, and I relaxed a little.

I decided then that I needed to give her the ring. It terrified me, that it was too late, that she wouldn't accept it now if I begged her, which I have no intention of doing. My pride will never be cast aside again for the sake of a woman's affection. I tromped down the stairs towards them, nodding sagely at Rachel, who immediately became occupied with wiping down a table that did not need it.

"Sera," I said politely, "could I see you in the library?"

I turned without giving her a chance to refuse and stalked towards it. A moment later I heard the rustle of her skirts in the doorway.

"Close the door."

She deliberately ignored me and moved only a few feet into the room. I could see her hands trembling at her sides, and she clenched them when she saw that I was observing her.

"It seems I have wounded you in some way," I said stiffly, wishing I could be anywhere else at this moment.

Her nostrils flared out and her mouth tightened. Was I being too formal? I stepped closer to her, regretting my words when I saw that she was truly angry.

"I _have_," I whispered now, forcing my voice to turn softer, "I have hurt you, and I'm sorry."

"What do you want?" she asked pointedly.

My hand reached up to absently touch the box, a gesture I have done a million times since I put it there, and her eyes followed my movement apprehensively.

"Do you still want to marry me?"

Her answer was halted by the knocking of the door. Had Merrill returned? I didn't take my eyes of Sera as I heard Rachel answering. She was staring at me, her eyes unreadable and dark. I moved close to her, until she had to tilt her face up to mine. I couldn't resist reaching down to kiss her, in case she said no. In case it was the last time I ever was this close to her.

Her lips parted softly under mine, her sigh absorbed by my mouth as I slid my tongue past her lips to touch her own. She groaned raggedly against me, moving her hands up to my shoulders and around my neck. I gripped her waist, pulling her closer until she was against me fully, feeling me possibly for the first time without fear. I had hoped she wouldn't pull away, and thank God she didn't. No, she leaned in closer, pressing her hips against mine, and I lost all my control. I moved against her in a hard rhythm, my breathing hard as I felt her stomach press against my arousal. I tightened my arms around her, bending her backwards and moving my hips up in a strong surge against her. She gasped, breaking away from my mouth and struggled for air.

"Erik," she said thickly, "don't...don't stop."

She had been right. I did let my guard down when I was kissing her. I shouldn't have ever stopped. If this was what it felt like to be free, I never would again.

"Monsieur, there are a couple here," Rachel said timidly from the door. I finally raised my head to glare at her, but she wasn't looking our way. "They are from Paris."

That stopped me. Cold. If it was Merrill he wouldn't have announced himself. I released Sera and went to stand by Rachel, peering out into the hall. Dread and panic curled inside of me when I saw the man, and apprehension when I saw part of the woman.

It was Nadir Khan, and if I am not mistaken by the black cane and edge of an equally black taffeta gown, the woman was none other than Madame Giry.

I stepped back in the library, nearly bumping into Sera from behind.

"Close the door," I commanded hoarsely, still burning with desire and a growing wave of panic.

Rachel did, scurrying inside with us instead of outside with them.

"Erik?" Sera asked, worry etched across her features, "Is it Merrill and Eleonore?"

"No."

"Then who?" she asked softly.

I turned around to face the wall, struggling to breathe. Surely they hadn't brought the gendarmes down on me. Surely not after all this time.

"Sera," I turned around abruptly, catching her arms, "you have to answer me. Now."

"You've been moping around for two weeks with that box, and you want me to give you an answer _now_?" she asked incredulously, "What kind of games are you playing? Are you _trying_ to drive me insane?"

"No," I managed, "there are people here. They're going to tell you things about me," I whispered, "they'll tell you I tricked you."

I fumbled around in my pocket, somehow managing to remove the box and not drop it. I grasped her hand, ignoring the look on her face as I slipped the ring on.

"Promise me you won't take it off."

"Wh-what?" she asked.

"Don't take it off, please, Sera," I whispered hopelessly, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. No matter what happens, know that I never meant to hurt you."

"You're scaring me," she said nervously, "what's going on."

"There are people here. From Paris," I said obtusely, "from Opera Populaire."

Her eyes widened then, and I hugged her fiercely to me, hoping that their visit here was benign.

"I promise."

Her words galvanized me back into myself. As long as I had her beside me, I could stand and face whatever they were bringing down on my head. As long as it wasn't the gendarmes, we would be fine. I pulled her to me behind the huge desk where Peter had his lessons, making her stand next to me, my hand possessively around hers, like she was a plaything that they could snatch away if they wanted.

"Rachel, bring them to us."

I gave her a nervous smile as we waited, and she squeezed my hand in reassurance. I was glad I did not have to face this alone. I wish I had done this weeks ago, when she still had confidence in me, in us. Now I only hoped she had enough to withstand the words of the two people in the world who had the power to destroy me. Not even Merrill knew the extent of mischief I had caused inside the theater. Twenty years worth of pranks and demands, of terror and loneliness. Nadir would perhaps never betray me, but Madame Giry already had. When she led Raoul de Chagny to my home, when she helped him to escape with Christine.

Madame Giry entered first, her severe hairstyle and dress as unchanging as always. It hurt to see her again. I had missed her and not even known it, despite her disapproval of me and Christine, despite her assistance to de Chagny, I had missed her. It seemed I was always looking for a replacement mother with older women, although she was only about ten years older than me. And Eleonore, who had certainly been more warm and friendly then Madame had ever been. Nadir came in next, with his European style that never quite looked European, no matter how hard he tried to blend in. I think it has something to do with the elaborate waistcoats and cravats, always peeking out beneath the austere overcoat. Christ, did he actually look _happy_ to see me?

"Erik," he said warmly, striding across the room to extend his hand to mine. His glance slid over to Sera momentarily, then back to me before I stuck my arm out to reach his. He clasped my hand with both of his, bowing slightly to me, then bowed to Sera as well.

"Mademoiselle," he murmured, looking at her beneath brows.

"Monsieur," she said politely, her voice breathless and unsure.

"Sera Tremaine," I said, "may I present Nadir Khan, and Madame Adele Giry, from Paris."

Sera greeted Madame Giry with equal generosity, although I felt the chill of her gaze from where I stood. I hadn't bothered acknowledging her, and wondered if I would regret the snub later. Probably.

"We have thought for some time now that you were...," Nadir broke off suddenly.

"...deceased? No, I assure you, I am still very much alive."

"I received your instructions. I carried them out," he said hesitantly.

"I know. I sent them," I said quietly, "I'm sure you were more disappointed by the news that I am alive, and I would like very much to know who told you otherwise."

"You sent Christine a note, did you not?" Madame Giry spoke up, giving Sera a scathing look, "You knew about the journals being published."

"I was under the impression that she would still think I was dead when she received it," I said stiffly.

"Oh, she does," Madame smiled bitterly, "but I am not as gullible as Christine."

"I've left her alone," I said curtly, "if she hadn't wanted to rile me, then she should have kept them to herself."

"The journals?" Madame asked.

I nodded my head slightly. She reached into the folds of her gown, and from somewhere produced two leather bound books. She tossed them on the desk in front of me, giving me a smirk as she did so. I stared at them with horror. I recognized them. Christine used to sit at her mirror and write in them almost every day. No matter how much I had wanted to, I had never dared to disturb her privacy that much by reading them. I figured now, if she had planned on publishing them, why shouldn't I? If the entire would could read about me and my misdeeds, why shouldn't I?

"She...gave them to you?" I asked Madame slowly.

"Not exactly."

I glanced up at her. She was studying Sera, who was staring right back at her unflinchingly. Men could probably still frighten her. Madame Giry did not. I squeezed her hand gently, running my thumb across the ring on her finger. She turned away from Madame to give me a reassuring look, squeezing my hand back. I felt her support and strength beside me, and it nearly floored me. How could someone so small be so significant to my well being? How had I missed that bond we shared?

"I told her to steal them."

I looked back to Nadir swiftly.

"_You?_" I laughed, "The ever law abiding Nadir?"

"Yes," he replied steadily, "I told her to do it immediately after I found out they were being published," he slid her a fuming look, "she should have done it before the newspaper ever came out. The Vicomtesse told her months before that she had intentions of it. She would have prevented much distress on the girl's part if she had acted quickly."

Distress? Christine was distressed because why? She hadn't gotten her way? My disbelief must have been apparent, because Madame Giry was glaring at me.

"Everyone, including her new relatives think she is mad, because of _you_! You are a liar! A trickster, and you caused her embarrassment. Even at her own wedding people were whispering about her, that she was seeing things that weren't there. Hearing voices...," she was ranting, but I held my hand up to silence her.

"Her husband could have provided her with all her needs," I said firmly, shaken by her bold tongue. Madame had never been so forthcoming with me, and I was glad of it. She was a fierce dragon, and I had no defense against her. She was right. I was all those things, and a whole lot more. "He could have stopped the rumors, and he could have kept her quiet."

She scoffed, "He stopped believing her as well."

My eyebrow rose, "After all he had seen? What did he think," I sneered, "that it was all part of a performance?"

I waved my hand at her in a dismissive gesture, hoping it would silence her. I turned back to Nadir, murmuring my gratitude for his loyalty.

"I assume you have seen Merrill, to know how to reach me?"

He nodded his head, "Yes, he is on his way here...with an older lady. Eleonore, I believe is her name."

"Excellent. Then perhaps I can talk you into staying for the wedding."


	39. The Power of Trust

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

_Sera_

For some reason unknown to me he had asked, although not directly, for my help, and I did my best to give it to him. All he seemed to want was for me to stand beside him a fast these people, his past, with him, and I did. I was confused, and struggled not to show it. The woman was giving me the stink eye, and the man was glancing occasionally at me as if believed that I might somehow not be real. When he had mentioned the marriage the woman had looked shocked, and I had moved my hand slightly so that she could see the ring. Her mouth tightened, and she had given us both a hard stare, but I raised my chin defiantly, daring her to say anything about him. I knew who she was. I think everyone in Paris, who had heard of the Phantom, had certainly heard of Madame Giry. My father had been nearly as concerned with her as he had the Phantom.

He said that sometimes she would catch a person, be it man, woman, or child, and rap them with her cane, forcing them to work harder or stop dawdling. I dared her to wave it at me. I could think of several interesting places for that cane.

"Married, Erik?" Nadir spoke first, "This girl?"

"Of course," he said softly, putting his arm around my waist.

I leaned into him gratefully, feeling encouraged by his warm heat, by his soothing tone. I placed my hand over his at my waist, drawing another severe look from Madame Giry.

"We're to be married as soon as Merrill returns from Paris. Do you have any idea how long that will take?"

"A day more, perhaps. Eleonore needed to travel more slowly than we did," Nadir said.

I looked between the two visitors, noticing for the first time what an odd pair they made. No doubt they had been looked at as curiously together as Erik and I would. Nadir was obviously foreign, handsome in his own exotic way, and dressed quite cleverly.

Madame Giry looked like a mere smile would crack her face into, and her black dress was as unbecoming as her no nonsense hairstyle. Her blue eyes were flat, cold, and unmistakably angry.

"Mademoiselle, what do you have to say regarding your impending marriage?" she asked icily.

My eyebrows rose at her abrupt and rude tone. What possible business was it of hers? Erik had certainly done nothing wrong. Neither had I, for that matter. I was marrying a man I was in love with, and I didn't give two figs about anything in those journals, unless it had potential to hurt him.

"I'm looking forward to my wedding day. Doesn't every girl?" I returned with what I hoped was a warm smile. I stared at her until she looked away, which took awhile, but in the end I felt a small victory.

"Would you both like to join us for dinner tonight?" I heard Erik asked, and I pinched him behind his back. I didn't want to spend more time in that woman's company than I had to. He jerked forward, startled, then looked down at me in amusement. "Something wrong?"

I flushed, wishing I could sink to the floor, but I managed to whisper, "No, nothing."

"Do you have everything ready?" he asked softly.

When I looked at him in confusion, he leaned down to whisper into my ear, "Your dress? Do you have it?"

"Not yet. It should be finished by now," I whispered back, "I'll go pick it up now."

He nodded, then leaned up, "You should send Rachel to the market. Set the table for six tonight."

"Six?" I asked carefully.

"I wouldn't exclude Rachel and Peter," he muttered.

"Thank you," I said sweetly, then leaned up to press a kiss to his cheek.

Mere inches before I reached him, Madame Giry cleared her throat, and Erik stood up abruptly so my lips were meeting air. I turned around to glare at her, still finding her narrow eyed and hateful looking.

"Madame Giry," I invited coolly, "would you like to accompany me to pick up my dress?"

"Oh, yes, Mademoiselle Tremaine," she bit out, "I most certainly would."

* * *

Erik cornered me before I left with her. I could tell he wasn't happy about my offer, and it clearly had him worried.

"I can handle her," I assured him, "no matter what she says, I won't believe her."

"She won't lie to you, Sera. Whatever she tells you, will probably be the truth. At least from her perspective," he said tightly, "she didn't approve of me...of my...relationship with Christine."

"I don't care what she says. Nothing could change my mind about you," I said firmly, then when he looked at me as if he didn't believe a word of it I said again, "Nothing. Now would you stop worrying? I can handle her."

"You don't understand," he said desperately, gripping my shoulders, "I haven't told you everything. I didn't tell you how I deceived her, I didn't tell you what I did. I'm sorry..." he whispered.

"This is what you've been so afraid of isn't it?" I said slowly, "That I would read the journals, and suddenly change my mind about you, about us."

I shook my head at him. How could I have been so blind not to see that he wasn't pushing me away because he didn't want me, but because of his own insecurity? Kissing me, intimacy with me, that was one thing. Opening up again to another human had to terrify him. He was still very much the wounded man, the fierce and fighting animal that I had met months ago. Still very much afraid of rejection and pain, of being ostracized for the rest of his life. He had said that he couldn't love again. At the time I had thought he meant me, but I now know he meant anyone.

"Erik, I will still love you, no matter what she says to me. I will marry you, and," I lowered my voice, "we will have our wedding night. Is that clear?"

His eyes widened and I saw the familiar flame of desire leap into them. His mouth parted in astonishment at my boldness, and I leaned forward to give him a suggestive kiss, nearly driving us both mad in the process. I kissed from his mouth to his neck, biting at the strong column of his neck, kissing and sucking flesh into my mouth in a lust filled state.

"Sera," he drew a harsh breath against my face, "you have no idea what I am. No idea."

"I don't care," I whispered seductively, "as long as we can finally be one."

He stepped away from me suddenly, looking at me with more than a little anger.

"This is your decision then? To ride alone with her, and hear what she has to say?"

"Where you won't be able to defend yourself?" I offered, "Yes. It is."

He closed his eyes for a moment, struggling to regain his composure.

"Trust me."

He opened his eyes and looked at me, so bleak and hopeless that I wanted to take him in my arms and promise that I wouldn't go anywhere. I would stay with him forever, and we would send his guests away, telling them to take the damned journals with him.

I wanted him to trust me more than that, so I let the words hang in the air. When I returned, I vowed, no matter what that woman said to me I would return with a smile on my face, and with a white dress that I would wear with pride for him.

"You will trust me," I said calmly, "maybe not today. But you will."

* * *

My ride could not have started off worse than with her snorting in derision at me and Rachel. I wanted to reach across the seat and slap her face, for causing discord between me and Erik, for causing him to feel humiliated and shamed again. Rachel didn't know much about Erik, but she had pledged her loyalty to him for saving her, and that was all that mattered to me. I had no intentions of telling her anything about his past either, so when Madame Giry opened her mouth, I silenced her with a look.

"You both work for him, then?" she asked caustically.

"Yes."

"That sounds about right," she muttered.

"I suggest you keep your high and mighty thoughts to yourself, lest you want me to leave you in Lyon," I said softly.

She looked at me in surprise then, "You deny that he has taken advantage of you? That he has...," she looked between the two of us suggestively, "not used you in any way?"

"That is my future husband you are referring to."

"My lady!" Rachel sounded upset, "He's never been anything but kind to me. He isn't interested in...that. He's not lecherous."

Her eyebrows rose as she looked at me. I smiled wickedly at her, unable to resist taunting her.

"Maybe not with Rachel, but I have indeed detected lecherous thoughts in Erik's mind," I said huskily.

"That's obscene," she muttered under her breath.

"Do you have something to say, Madame Giry?" I challenged.

I heard what she said, and I dared her to repeat it again. When she did, I pounced on her words before they cleared her mouth.

"Because of the mask?" Iasked menacingly.

"No," she said stiffly, surprising me. I had assumed that whatever her problem was with our relationship had more to do with the mask than anything. "Of course not. That has never been the issue with Erik, unless of course, you asked _him_."

Surprised, I nodded, wanting to hear more.

She looked over at Rachel pointedly, then glanced out the window. It seemed I would have to wait until we dropped her off at the market to find out more.

* * *

Thank everybody for reviewing...boy...Madame Giry isn't very nice is she? Well...maybe...there's a reason...I guess we'll just have to see if it's worth it.

* * *


	40. Daroga

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

Terror cannot begin to describe what I felt when I watched her leave with Madame Giry. She had asked me to trust her, but how could I? I knew she would be given a description of my descent into madness over the last couple of years. I knew she would feel sickened. It sickened _me_, now that I was out of the theater. I didn't even like to remember it, how I deliberately cut myself off from the world, from everything, just so I could indulge in my obsession, so I could plot. Madame Giry and I had been close, and at times I used to catch her wandering the halls at night, as if in search of me. Especially if I had been gone for a great length of time. I never was, but sometimes I maintained my silence for weeks just to get a rise out of her. She was always there, watching the flies above stage, looking for me. Her and Meg both. Little Giry had seen me a few times, when I allowed it, and I think it frightened her almost as much as it infuriated Adele.

"Why did you bring that woman here, daroga?" I asked, regretting immediately using the familiar name. I did not want to encourage talk about the past. I wanted to forget it.

"Madame Giry?" I nodded, "She was coming on her own. I thought it best if I accompanied her."

"For her protection?" I asked angrily, that he thought I would hurt her.

"Or yours," he said under his breath, to which I laughed.

"Indeed," I agreed, "But why would she come at all?"

"She is very angry over your deceit," he replied quietly.

"Of Christine?" I asked bitterly.

"No, she is angry because she believed you were dead."

I sat back against the chair behind the desk in shock. Why would she have been angry over my death? She had seldom offered to have anything to do with me after she found out I was coaching Christine. She had been disappointed in me, in my behavior, but I hadn't cared. For once in my life I had wanted love, and Christine had been innocent and trusting, showing me less reserve than anyone I had ever known. It wasn't until after the fire that I had felt ashamed of my trickery, for using her, possibly for causing her grief and unhappiness within society.

"She was...inconsolable...when she read the newspaper article. She hadn't read it until I pointed it out to her," he said gruffly.

"Adele, _inconsolable_? Over _me_?" I snorted, slamming my palms upon the table. "No, daroga, you _cannot _be right about that. Those were tears of joy she shed, if any."

"How many people can call her Adele?" he asked, "How many people do you think call her by her first name, and are allowed to go without being caned?"

I sat back, his words silencing me momentarily.

"She is angry, because she has missed you, she misses her home, and she always regarded you as her son, whether you knew it or not," he said.

"Then why would she betray me?" I asked angrily, shooting out of the chair, "Why did she take that _boy _down there?"

"Because what you were doing was wrong," he said calmly, "and she loved Christine just as much as she loved you."

"No," I whispered, fighting back tears. "She never loved me."

He left me in the library, disappearing inside my house like he belonged there. I sat in silence, hoping and praying that she didn't ruin what I had with Sera. She couldn't have ever loved me. No one had loved me, not until Sera.

I looked over at the journals, hating myself for wanting to know what was inside. I walked towards the desk, lifting up a soft leather cover to reveal neat feminine handwriting, scrolling across pale yellow parchment paper.

_The Journal of Christine Daae_

I closed the book immediately, feeling like a voyeur and betrayer at the same time. I shouldn't be concerned with what was inside any longer. I had Sera now. She is light. She is light, and I shouldn't ever return to those dark times in my past. Christine was my past, but Sera, she is my future. Do I love her? Yes, I think so, but the more important question is can I tell her? Love without words is nearly impossible. Nearly. But did I dare try to put them together, to tell her that I couldn't possibly live without her?

Surely after today there would be no need. There would be no wedding, there would be no wedding night. Sera would be gone, once she knew how crazy I really am. And I would have to try my best to keep from strangling Madame Adele Giry if she succeeded in frightening off my bride.

Peter walkedinto the library in the middle of my brooding, bounding into his usual chair beside the desk, waiting anxiously for me to look up.

"Aren't we having a lesson?" he asked loudly, as if I were deaf, and not ignoring him.

I grunted at him, in no mood for lessons or talking. I looked up to see Nadir standing in the doorway, watching us.

"Peter," I said, standing, "this is Nadir. He's an old acquaintance of mine."

Peter looked around cautiously, then peered at him in his usual way, his eye fixated on his target while his head moved around. I think he does it out of habit now, but it began as a trick to annoy Sera when he was younger. He had confided it to me one day, and I hadn't been able to rebuke him because I had laughed. If only I had been that carefree about my issues when I was younger. But I hadn't. I had taken every unkind word and vicious blow seriously, and it had turned me into a bitter and lonely man.

Nadir bowed formally to the boy, making him giggle. He turned back to me mischievously and moved his eye patch over to the his good eye. He looked back at Nadir, seeing nothing, yet it caused him to laugh again.

Nadir looked at me questioningly, but I shrugged. How did I know the mind of an eleven year old? Peter was moody. He could behave like this one moment, then be off by himself the next, or angry because you showed him some sort of affection.

"No calculus today," I said, finally getting him to look back at me with the correct eye.

He grinned at me, "No kidding? Can I ride the mare?"

"Of course," I paused, "why don't you take the gelding out as well. Lead him behind, let him get some exercise, but don't try and take him across the canal."

"Yeah, maybe next time you ride him, he won't throw you," he snickered at me, then bolted from the room.

Nadir didn't smile, with his mouth. But his eyes were laughing at me as I scowled at him.

"He didn't throw me."

"Of course. I can't imagine any horse getting the best of you," he said placidly.

"He fell," I insisted, but I gave up after that. There was never any sense arguing with a Persian.

They were always right.

* * *

Ha ha, you thought you were getting a serious cat fight chapter...stay tuned...I'll be writing it shortly. 


	41. Setting Giry Straight

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

_Sera_

I breathed a sigh of relief when Rachel finally left the carriage. I think the girl had expected a fight to erupt inside the confined space, and if Madame Giry had said anything derogatory about Erik, there would have been. Unless it was a fact, I wouldn't allow her to say anything about him, and I really didn't care what had happened in his past anyway.

"So, do you deny that Erik has deceived you into matrimony?"

"Of course I deny it!" I said heatedly. "Why would he need to trick me?"

"That is his way," she returned evenly.

I shook my head at her, "Maybe at one time, when he needed to resort to it to earn acceptance and love, but he never needed it with me. I gave him those things willingly. I've never met a man who needed it more."

"You are correct about that," she sighed, leaning her head against the carriage. "I don't suppose you know anything about his...former life?"

"I know all about the Opera Populaire. I know about Christine. There is nothing you can say that will change my mind," I said coolly.

"Did you know he kidnapped her?"

I nodded my head hesitantly. I had known, not only from what he told me, but what I read in the paper from his desk. I'd never heard it put quite like that before, but he hadn't tried to hide the fact.

"You know he tried to kill Raoul de Chagny?"

Again, I nodded.

"You know he killed a stagehand and member of the performance troupe? You know he set fire to the theater and that many people were injured and some killed?"

I felt my jaw clench, and I looked away from her. I didn't want specifics.

"I know he has killed. I know he was an executioner at one time. I know he has murdered men," I finally was able to look at her, "and I know he has fought tooth and nail his entire life to find acceptance and love. I know he hasn't had one ounce of compassion. What I don't understand, is why. Why has he been cast out of society? Why was he forced to live like an animal in a cage? Because of what he looks like, and_ that _has made him who he is. I know he saved my life, and Rachel's life, from a man who did this to us."

I held out my hands for her to examine, wondering if she understood what she was seeing.

"I know what a real monster is, Madame Giry. It's a man who likes to hear women screaming in pain so he can rape them. He likes to burn their hands, their breasts, their thighs, or kick them, whip them, a man who kicks his own wife's teeth in and leaves her to choke on her own blood," I leaned in to whisper to her, feeling nauseous as I remembered the nights at Bernards hands, and at my stepfathers, "a man who likes to rape his own stepdaughter, and cuts out her brother's eyeball when she tries to fight him."

I leaned back in the carriage, feeling emotionally drained. I hadn't wanted to reveal anything to this woman, but she had made me so angry, bringing up Erik's past, his failures, his cruelty. I knew he had done those things, but I also knew he was a good man.

"Erik has not deceived me into matrimony," I managed, "he's been the most reluctant person in this relationship to go to the altar, because he doesn't think he's good enough for me. But I love him, and I don't hold his past against him. I will marry him, and you, nor anyone else cannot stop me."

When I went in to retrieve my gown, she did not accompany me inside. Before we made it to the market to pick Rachel up, she said quietly, "I had been waiting for so long for something like that to happen. When it did, I wasn't sure if I could forgive him. I kept telling him that he was going to regret what he was doing, that he was going to make the biggest mistake of his life."

"Funny, that's what he told me when said I loved him. Maybe if you hadn't been so focused on him setting himself up for a fall, you could have encouraged him to try something else. Maybe you could have shown him what love can do for a person, instead of berating him for loving her the only way he knew how."

When Rachel got into the carriage, I saw Madame casting furtive glances at our hands, looking at our oddly shaped fingers, which I thought gave us the power to determine who was really a monster, and who wasn't.

I sent Rachel into the cottage with my dress, telling her to hang it in my armoire. I left Madame to walk slowly up the path to the house as I rushed through the door, looking for Erik. I only felt a little guilty that her head was bowed onto her chest, and she could no longer look me in the eyes. I found him and Nadir in the library, dutifully ignoring one another. He glanced up when I entered, apprehension on his face.

"Did you miss me?" I asked softly, smiling at him, keeping my promise to myself.

"I did," he said, slowly coming to his feet, "the dress?"

"Tucked safely away from your sight, until the big day."

He took my hand and led me out of the library, veering toward the back of the house when he heard the front door opening for Madame Giry. I trotted to keep up with his long strides, until he pulled me through the unused conservatory. I hadn't bothered trying to keep this room updated, and it was a dark and cheerless room. Normally sunlight would have pored through the windows that encased the entire wall, but overgrown ivy had choked most of it out.

He pulled me to him, his hand catching mine to be sure the ring was still present. He kissed it softly, his eyes unfathomable in the dark room.

"What did she say?" he asked slowly.

"Nothing I didn't already know," I said confidently, knowing how much he needed to hear the words. He closed his eyes, expelling a long pent up breath of relief. I could have kicked him for his lack of faith, but I held him close to me instead.

"You will still marry me?"

"Yes," I whispered, "I told you I would."

"You aren't doing this to win a conversation are you?"

I sputtered for a moment, until he chuckled against my temple.

"You! I should slap you for that," I said threateningly.

"I haven't offered for them to stay here yet," he said hesitantly.

"Okay," I said warily.

"If...if I didn't offer, they would probably go to a hotel."

I nodded my head, my heart racing as I wondered where he was going with it.

"Would you stay with me tonight?" he whispered, not looking me in the eyes.

"_Yes."_

He pulled my head to his, kissing me with more intensity and strength than ever before, biting at my lips, his tongue delving deeper inside until I had to break away to breathe.

"We don't have to do anything," he said raggedly, "I just can't imagine spending another night without you."

Oh, but I wanted to. I wanted to do so much more than hold him through the night. I wanted everything from him, and I wanted to give him everything in return.

I kissed him again, showing how much I agreed with him, that I couldn't imagine another night alone either. That I wanted him beside me for the rest of my life, and no one would tear us apart. I tried to press full length against him, but he pushed me backwards, "No, Sera. We...we won't leave this room if we continue."

I sighed against him, knowing he was right, but wishing it was already time for them to leave.

It was going to be a long evening, and I hadn't even started dinner yet.


	42. The Reluctant Son

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

I was forced to retreat back to the library with my guests, and a very curious Peter. I was thankful for his presence, because talking to him meant I could avoid the look in Madame Giry's eyes that said she wished to speak with me alone. She kept glancing at the journals, still mostly untouched on the desk, obviously wondering why I wasn't tucked in some dark hole, pouring over each morbid word. Nadir had busied himself with some of my ancient Persian texts, no doubt wondering why I had anything from a place I hated with a passion.

"So are you going to live here after you marry Sera?" Peter asked.

I thought about it for a moment. I had loved it here after I first got settled, after I realized I wouldn't die as easily as I wanted to. But after all that had happened with Sera, and the changing landscape of the neighborhood, I really didn't want to anymore.

"No."

From the corner of my eyes I saw his head droop, "You're going to leave us here? Or just me?" he whispered uncertainly.

"Neither," I said firmly, wishing I knew how to deal with the issues that Peter struggled with. At least I had known from an early age what to expect from people. This boy had learned it in one cruel night, that people could be violent and disgusting, that the world would be better off without some people in it. His carefree life had been shattered, and I think he half expected us all to turn against him one day and beat him mercilessly. From the moment his eye had been removed, he lived in fear of that blinding pain returning to him, and that the next time he wouldn't survive.

"When we leave, we will all be going together," I said.

"Even Rachel?" he asked belligerently, his head snapping up to glare at me.

"If that's what she wants," I said carefully, suspecting I was about to see one of his mood swings, "but she does have a family. She may wish to return to them."

"They don't want her," he muttered.

My eyebrows rose, I hadn't heard of her receiving a reply from England, and it hadn't been that long since she came to work here, "How could you know what the Moore's want?"

"She's still here isn't she?"

"Peter," I explained as patiently as I could, "it takes awhile for a letter to reach England, and the same amount of time for one to return here. Rachel is welcome to come with us, or I will put her on the first train toward the edge of this continent, and she can sail to England on her own. Or she can stay here. It's really up to her."

"I don't want her to leave," he said quietly.

"Then you shouldn't be talking to me," I returned evenly, "you should be pestering her."

I breathed a sigh of relief when he finally darted out of the library. Until I saw that Nadir had managed to slip out, and I was now alone with Madame Giry.

"You are remarkably patient with him," she murmured.

I speared her with an exasperated glance, and to my surprise she actually smiled.

"He's a very capricious child. I never know what to expect with him," I said curtly.

"He reminds me of someone I used to know," she said lightly, "because even when you were older you weren't fond of affection or easily...appeased."

"You thought I wasn't fond of affection?" I slid her a startled glance, "You have no idea what I was _fond_ of."

"You hid things remarkably well for someone your age," she said, "and I let you hide because I didn't quite know how to reach you."

"Adele, must we do this?" I said quietly, staring down at my hands in my lap, "Do we really have to drag this out? I understand, you're angry, you must hate me for everything I did, for Christine, for destroying the theater...all of it. I only have myself to blame."

"I could never hate you," she whispered furiously, "_I _failed _you_. I should have told you how much you meant to me, instead of trying to shame you into doing things right, instead of making you feel inferior. I felt such _guilt_ after I read that you had died, because I thought_ I _killed you. By taking him down there, by helping Christine, I had killed you."

I looked up at her, startled by her words, and the vehemence in which she spoke them. "You thought I was dead for over a year, and it made you angry?"

"Haven't you listened to a word I've said?" she snapped, "Honestly, Erik. For a _genius_, you can be surprisingly obtuse."

"What then?" I whispered, daring her to say the words, "What could you have possibly felt for me?"

"I had three children," she said quietly, "Meg, Christine, and you. I didn't know what to do when you started coaching her. She was my daughter, you were my son, and you were terribly misguided. She was far too young, too innocent to understand a man like you."

I agreed with her on that note. That was why it had worked so well for me at first. Christine had been amazingly easy to manipulate, to trick. She went along with my ruse, like a trusting child, like a doting student. I controlled every aspect of her life, and called it love. I had no idea at the time what the word meant.

"I'm sorry, Adele. If there's anything I can do...for Meg, for you, I will do it."

"That no longer includes Christine?" she walked over to the desk, "You aren't even going to read these? The strange and lonely rants of a little girl, growing into a troubled young woman?"

"It would be wrong."

She shook her head, "She was going to publish them, and I encouraged her. I wanted the world to see that there was nothing wrong with you. That you were lonely, that you were afraid of them...not the other way around."

I scoffed, "I'm not afraid of anything," a bold lie, but she didn't contradict me.

"I think Sera would understand you more, if she were to read them," she finally said.

I glared at her, "Why would I let her do something like that? I don't need to air every bit of my life for her. She doesn't need to understand Christine."

"I read them. Because they were a connection to you."

"That man is gone," I whispered, "he doesn't exist anymore," but I was having a hard time believing it myself. Especially after today. I glanced at the journals, full of the promise of knowledge and redemption, of defeat and agony. There was no telling what was inside those pages.

Had I changed that much? It was difficult now to conjure up that obsessed man, so intent on what he wanted that nothing else mattered. It had devastated me to be attracted to Christine. I had thought I needed no one, and nothing, until I had heard her voice, as beautiful as the day was long, and as soulless and empty as my heart.

"I can't read them," I managed to whisper, "but if Sera wants to, I will not stop her."

Madame Giry walked around the desk toward me and put her hand on my shoulder. I closed my eyes as I felt her squeeze tightly, my breath unable to leave me through the confusing swirl in my mind. I understood then, finally, the woman who had cared for me all those years. She hadn't been disapproving, she had been mothering, at least to the extent I would allow. When I was younger she had been more doting, even affectionate at times in her gruff and familiar manner. Even during holidays, when everyone else would return home, she would stay with Meg and Christine in the theater, and sit in my box until I would arrive, if only to wish me a Merry Christmas, or leave some small gift for me, which I would return with in my lonely home and cherish.

She knew when I was present as she tucked the girls in, or when I paced inside the walls of their room, needing to speak with her. She had known far more about me than I gave her credit for, and I had tried very hard to always remind her of her place. Of course she had cared, but I had turned away every opportunity for there to ever be anything between us. Slowly I reached up and touched her hand, unable to speak, but wanting to finally close the mile wide gap I had carefully constructed between us, that had grown increasingly wide each time I sat down with Christine, and had damn near destroyed when I had begun to plot the sequence of events that eventually led me here. To Sera.

"I hope she can bring out the man inside of you. The one I've been waiting to see for so long," she said softly.

I sat silently when she left the room, near the edge of tears once more. I felt raw inside, as if my entire life, the one I had so painfully developed to appease my lonely nature had been a lie. I hadn't been as alone as I thought, and had never dared to acknowledge something I could have taken long ago. A mother's love.


	43. Plans, Interrupted

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

A/N: for the sake of this story, Madame Giry did not rescue Erik from the gypsies. I will follow Kay a little closer on this, that she became the keeper of the box, and had an unusual relationship with him.

_Sera_

It was an unusual dinner. Rachel and Peter exchanged surreptitious glances at one another all evening, as if conspiring together on something, or they had already done something and expected to be caught. Madame Giry's entire attitude had changed, but she was quite and withdrawn, if not slightly affectionate toward Erik. She gave me several knowing looks, as if she knew what was going to happen this evening if we could ever get rid of our company. Nadir ignored us all, while Erik held my hand beneath the table, stroking the back of my hand until I thought I would go mad if they all didn't leave and allow us to sneak upstairs.

Everything was fine, going according to plan. I had every intention of going up to his room and claiming everything he was willing to give me as mine. Then it began to rain. When the first crack of lightening rent the sky, Erik and I looked at each other in misery, knowing our plans for the evening were doomed.

"It sounds bad out there," Rachel whispered, looking up at the ceiling of the dining room as if it were about to come crashing on our heads. I glared at her, but she was too busy studying the ornate ceiling.

"Yes, it does," Madame Giry agreed, then looked at Erik pointedly.

He sighed, "You may stay here until it clears up, of course."

"Thank you, Erik," she replied noncommittally.

I sank back into my chair, earning a wry smile from Erik. He knew exactly what I was thinking, and I suspected he was every bit as disappointed as me. I had missed him for the last two weeks, each of us being stubborn about different things, both of us wrong. I hadn't confronted him about the ring because I thought that he should have mentioned it to me first, and then when he never proposed formally, I became hurt.

I confess, I have no feminine wiles. If I had been any other woman, say Christine, I probably would have launched myself into his arms, pettily demanding that he give me what I asked for. But I have no right to judge her. I don't know her, except for what Erik has told me, and that was that she was beautiful, and a child. I had longed to snatch those journals from the desk and burn them, or hide away and read them until my curiosity with her was sated.

I wanted to know everything and nothing about the girl in his life before me. I have wondered about those journals ever since I saw that newspaper article, and realized who Erik really was. I would have gone out and bought them, no doubt, if they had been published. Now they never would be, and the irritating little want that has been in the back of my mind is lying in the library, unguarded and waiting.

"What are you going to do with that dress, Sera?" Rachel asked hesitantly.

I frowned at her, "Why, get married in it of course."

She giggled, then looked at Peter. He grinned and looked at Erik, who was looking at all three of us as if we had lost our minds.

"Am I missing something?" he asked, setting his fork beside his plate. He looked at me, and I shrugged.

"Not your wedding dress, the evening gown," she said meekly.

"Oh."

I felt my face turn into a flaming match head. I had forgotten about that dress tucked into the back of my armoire. I had no explanation for it, for buying something so impulsively. It wasn't as if I would ever be able to wear something so extravagant.

"Sera?"

I looked over to Erik, who was staring at me with concerning intensity.

"It's nothing. I bought it on impulse...," I said nervously, "I'll never be able to wear it."

"Maybe she could wear it to the opera," Rachel offered.

Four pairs of eyes turned to her, all of us startled by her statement. I don't think she knows who Erik is, or even anything about Paris and Opera Populaire at all, but the look that Erik gave me was one of disbelief. He thought I had ratted him out, and I shot him an angry look back, that he would think something like that from me.

"No," I said tensely, "I don't think I would enjoy the opera."

Madame Giry raised a brow at me, but said nothing. She returned her attention to her plate, and I excused myself to get dessert from the kitchen. I grabbed the mountainous cake from the counter, and almost shoved it against Erik's chest when I turned around.

"Oh!" I exclaimed, balancing the cake precariously on my arm.

He plucked it from my hands and tossed it negligently back onto the counter. His eyes were piercing and hard as he stalked forward.

"Stop!" I batted him away, "I haven't told anybody anything."

"No?" he asked softly, "Not one soul?"

I glowered at him, "Not even Peter. How could you think I would do something like that? Do you really think I want to jeopardize your freedom by announcing it to everyone?"

He glanced away from me, "Forgive me. My trust has been...misplaced in the past. I'm sorry for my lack of faith."

"You're going to have to trust me sometime."

He looked back at me a moment, regarding me with an even look.

"Christine's journals. Do you want to read them?"

I felt my heart stop for a moment. He was offering them to me? I don't think he'd even read them himself, yet he was going to allow me?

"Why?"

"Because I _do_ want to trust you, and I want you to know where I'm coming from when I say...I don't know how to to trust you, or anyone else. I don't understand _people_, Sera. I've been alone for far too long to just...let everyone in," he said quietly.

"Do you..._want_ me to read them?"

He pitched his head back slightly, closing his eyes, "Yes. God help me, but yes."

"I...," I broke off, uncertain what to say, what he needed to hear, "I don't need them. You understand that, don't you? I will marry you regardless of what's in them. If you decided to burn them, I would marry you never knowing what happened between you two."

He looked at me with a strangling sense of desperation in his eyes. He was going to drown on his own subjugation if someone didn't pull him out. He was berating himself over what he had done, and I didn't know how to help him because I didn't know what that was.

Had he seduced her and ruined her for all other men? Had he impregnated her, God forbid, and his child was being raised as a de Chagny?

"If this is what you want, then I will do it."

I think my answer terrified him more than it did me, because he looked ready to slink off to his room and wait for me to pass judgment on him, which I would never do.

"I'm going to ask them to stay the night," he muttered, then turned away while I stood there dumbfounded as he went to cancel our plans for the evening.

I was nearly spitting nails when I went back into the dining room, hearing him offer the spare cottage to Madame Giry, and Nadir one of the guest rooms on the opposite side of the chateau.

"Are you absolutely certain?" Madame Giry asked.

He sent me a discreet look before muttering, "Absolutely."

Rachel went ahead and prepared the cottage for Madame Giry. She had been staying in it for the last week and a half, but begged me to let her stay in my cottage for the night so she wouldn't have to talk to _that woman_. I agreed, and went upstairs to prepare Nadir's room for the evening. Luckily Peter hadn't stolen anything from upstairs, and I had for some reason stocked all the linen closets with new blankets. Digging the rats' nests out hadn't been much fun, and the rats hadn't appreciated it too much either.

I tucked the ends of the sheet into the bottom of the bed, then reached across to draw it over the top. When I turned around Madame Giry was standing about three feet away from me. The blanket I had managed to grab slipped to the floor as my heart shot up into my throat. For a moment I was speechless.

"What is it with you two?" I snapped, "Did you take lessons on the incorrect way to enter a room or something?"

She swung her cane side to side, which I looked at with suspicion. If she even dared to point that thing my way she was going to regret it.

"Did I frighten you, Mademoiselle Tremaine? I apologize. I wished to offer you an apology for my behavior earlier today," she said placidly.

I turned around to throw a coverlet across the bed, and to my surprise she moved across the room to help me, expertly tucking the end in, then putting the pillows into the cases.

"Apology accepted," I said softly, "but what I don't understand is...what your relationship with Erik is. I know you were the ballet director, because my father worked at Opera Populaire for a brief, very brief, time."

"Erik was one of the last architects on the theater. By the time I came along, he already had developed the ploy of them needing an Opera Ghost. He enlisted me to help him deliver missives to the managers, make sure his salary was paid, and that no one was to reserve Box Five but him," she paused, still swinging her cane, "I soon realized that he was a very lonely, very desperate young man. And I tried to reach out to him, but before Christine came along, he wanted nothing to do with humans. Nadir knows what happened in Persia, but he has never spoken of it. I did not even know he had been an executioner until today. I only know that after Christine came into his theater, he was a very different man. He no longer wanted to be separate from the world. He didn't want to join us, he wanted to lure Christine into his web, and never release her."

"You must have cared for them both very much," I struggled to speak, regretting being so angry with her earlier. I had thought her condescending attitude toward him had been because of her disapproval of our relationship, because of his appearance.

"They were my children. Meg, Christine, and Erik."

"Meg?"

"My only daughter by birth. The others were by choice."

"I hope you will continue to...visit us...once we are married."

She gave me an amused smile, as if she knew I still wasn't certain about her, "In your new home?"

I shook my head at her, having no idea what she was talking about.

"Erik told your brother, Peter, that you would be moving soon. I'm sorry, I had no idea he hadn't discussed it with you."

"With the money he extorted from the theater, I have no doubt that he could buy France," I snorted, "Where I live is inconsequential, as long as I don't have to return to Paris."

"Why not Paris? Because of him?" she asked slowly.

"No," I said, surprised, "because of me. My stepfather is still there, somewhere, I think."

"I'm very sorry for all the things you have gone through," she said, "that is one thing you won't have to worry about with Erik. He was a very protective _ghost. _He will be considerate with you."

* * *

Well, I think this is all I'll get to write tonight, maybe you'll hear from me tomorrow. Congratulate me...I actually got a JOB. I'm the new Ad Sales Exec for a magazine here where live. It's for fishing...but oh well, as long as I get paid. 


	44. The Cut

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

Nadir and I stared at one another from across the library. Sera stared at the massive desk with Christine's journals in the center, as if they were an unusual insect she was trying to identify. Madame Giry had long since retired, and it was ultimately up to Nadir to leave so that I could talk with Sera. I had noticed Sera had grown increasingly quiet after our talk in the kitchen, and had been the unfortunate victim of several scowls, glares, and glowers. I wasn't sure if it was over the journals, or of our ruined evening, but I hoped she was sweeter by morning.

The silence stretched between us, until finally Sera stood up and announced that she was going to bed. I cast a furious look at Nadir, who ignored me to bid Sera goodnight. She walked over to me and leaned across the corner of the desk to kiss me.

"Good night, Erik," she murmured, taking one of the journals with her when she finished with my less than affectionate kiss.

"Goodnight," I whispered, unable to take my eyes off the journal in her hand. She was actually going to read it. I must have made some noise, because she reached out to touch my cheek, giving me a warm smile.

"I'll see you in the morning," she said softly, "and hopefully, we'll see Eleonore and Merrill as well."

I nodded, too stricken to agree. She was going to read the journal tonight, and I had told her I wanted it. I still wasn't sure if that was the truth or not. Certainly it was a way to trust her, but it also had enormous potential to destroy me. I didn't dare hope for a continuation of the peace and happiness that I have felt since I took her back in my arms.

After she left, I muttered, "Thanks, daroga." He smiled at me, steepling his index fingers against his chin in thought.

"Erik, I have been wondering what your intentions regarding the reopening of the theater are."

I drew my head back in surprise. I hadn't given two second thoughts to the reopening. My mind had been so wrapped up in Sera and the drama around Chauvin, as well as the journals.

"My intentions?" I asked carefully.

"Will you be returning, and resuming your...post?" he asked curtly.

"N-no. Why would I want to do something like that? I feel alive for the first time in my life," I shuddered, "why would I want to go back to that?"

"Christine has been given the lead soprano," he informed me stoically.

I couldn't help but feel a surge of pride for her. My student, finally given what she deserved. What I had worked so hard to help her accomplish. In the end, _she _had been my masterpiece, not the opera I had performed in. Her ethereal voice rising to the height of heaven, perfect in pitch, and in every other way. My beautiful seraph was going to sing lead. And I would not be there.

"I will not return," I promised solemnly, "but thank you for the news. It brings me peace."

He inclined his head towards me, "I am glad of that, at least. Good night, Erik."

I sat back in the chair, wondering how the day had started off so bad, then better, and ended up with me alone again. I wondered if Sera was reading the journal already. If she was trying to fit me into the puzzle of Christine's life. If had she been a neutral party, who she would have routed for. Me, or de Chagny. I sighed wearily, rubbing my hand across my face absently. I wanted to go upstairs and remove the confining objects on my head, relaxing on my bed, thinking of music, and Sera. The rain was still pounding outside, obviously intent on staying for the night. I only hoped that Eleonore and Merrill arrived soon. Maybe I could have her married before she ever finished the first journal.

I walked up to my room wearily, pushing the door open with a yawn. I froze midway through. Sera was perched at my desk, her soft brown hair spilling across her shoulders as she read through the journal.

"What are you doing?"

My voice was probably harsher than I meant it, and she spun around to face me with a guilty look.

"What's it look like?" she said casually, then turned back to the journal.

I didn't want her here. Not like this. Not while she was reading...that. I struggled to control my temper, but it was suddenly on a very short leash.

"You brought this on yourself," she muttered over her shoulder.

"I didn't mean for you to read them in front of me," I said tightly.

She turned around to look at me, "Is that why you look like a bull with a red cape dangling in front of him? I assumed it had to do with me being here."

I glanced down at the journal, considering it an evil and vile thing that had intervened in my sanctuary. She closed it and tucked it into a drawer of the desk.

"There. She's gone."

We stared at each other for a full thirty seconds, the anger fading from me and turning into a violent anticipation. She came toward me then, her eyes and skin glowing in the candlelight. Her hand reached up to touch my face, then moved along my hairpiece. I wanted to swat her hand away, but she was finding something interesting about it, and I held my breath, wondering if I had been walking around all evening with something wrong.

"You need a haircut," she said softly, then I felt her tug gently on a strand of my own hair.

I flinched, pulling away from her touch. I've never been touched on my head before, not while I was conscious. I hate that part of myself, more so than even the mask.

"Will you let me do it?"

I stared at her in a combination of fascination and horror. She wanted to cut my hair? I've always done it myself, and probably done it horribly, but with the wig on, who would notice? For almost twenty years, no one has seen me anyway, besides Merrill, Nadir, and Madame Giry.

_Trust._

I had to remember that. She wanted me to trust her. I knew she had seen it before, but that had been an unguarded moment. I had no idea what her reaction had been, and had no way of knowing if she did this out of pity, curiosity, or if this was one of her challenges, to see how far she could push me before I snapped. Probably all three.

"Okay," I whispered hesitantly.

I went into the bathroom, relieved to find that nothing was too obvious with my hair, and retrieved a pair of scissors and a comb for her. I removed my overcoat and waistcoat, and would have left my shirt on but she fussed, so I removed it as well. She tucked a towel around my neck and pushed me into a chair.

She pressed a comb in my hand, "Go ahead and brush your hair. Peter complained for days after I combed the nest from his hair," she said it subtly, then moved back into the bathroom. I knew instantly that it was so I wouldn't have to remove it in front of her. I relaxed a little because she was trying to allow me to keep my dignity.

If only she knew.

I took it off, feeling relief when the cool air hit my scalp. The summer months were the worst, for both the mask and the wig. Hiding it securely in the opposite drawer, I ran the comb across my head, tugging at the thicker parts, going slower over the right side.

She came out with a small basin of water, which she sat on my desk. I sat forward in alarm when it almost sloshed onto my sheet music, but she gave me an apologetic look and shuffled the papers to one side. She took the comb from my hand and dipped it into the water, then turned toward me. Her eyes met mine for the first time since she entered the room, her gaze softening as they traveled up my head. I closed my eyes when I saw her hand reaching out, the comb dripping water down my face and into my hair. She stood in between my legs, one hand grasping my head gently while the other moved over me with the comb, alternating between dipping the comb in water, then sliding it through my hair.

When it was wet to her satisfaction, she took the scissors from the desk. That caught my attention.

"How...how are you planning on cutting it?" I managed to whisper.

"Just trim it, nothing too dramatic," she said reassuringly.

I nodded slightly, then closed my eyes. Then I felt her hand touch my scalp, and I drew back in sudden fear. My eyes flew open to look into hers, but they were still soft, still beautifully green and loving. She smiled at me, then touched me again, her fingers raking the hair to one side, then across again. Her lips puckered slightly, as if she were trying to contrive what way to cut something so unsymmetrical.

"It's no use," I said bitterly, "there is nothing that can be done."

"Are you questioning me, Monsieur Gervais?" she asked sharply, and when I looked, a smile was lurking at the corner of her mouth, "I am _holding scissors,_" she reminded me, waving them near my eye. I found it ironic she could find humor in that.

"No."

Suddenly, she pulled a section of hair up, then _snip. Snip, snip, snip. _The process was repeated numerous times, her hand constantly returning to lift a portion of hair, then pull it high above my head. I caught my breath each time she ran her hand from the top, through the back of it, then down to my neck, shaking it slightly with the tips of her fingers. The sensations were indescribable. I felt a stirring inside my heart, inside my chest, and frequently into my loins. I would let her do this anytime she pleased, I thought. If this was my reward for showing her this, it was worth it.

All too soon she finished, drawing my hair around my face and checking the length, then trimming some across the back. She pulled the towel from my shoulders, folding up the bits of fallen hair into it and carrying it into the bathroom. She gave me a look, "Well, aren't you even curious?"

Obediently I went into the bathroom, coming to a stop when I saw my reflection. My hair fell across my face, obscuring a portion of the mask, covering up most of what was the barest section of my skull. I shook my head slightly, sending the still damp strands across my face, then tugged wonderingly at the back. She had somehow managed to cover up most of my head with my own hair. It was not full and thick, or even normal by any means, but it wasn't as obvious either.

"Do you like it?" she asked tensely from the doorway.

I could only nod at her as emotion swelled into my throat. It was painful to breathe. Painful to even stand here looking at her. It was certainly far to much trouble to do it from such a distance. I crossed to her in two giant strides, pulling her into my arms where she belonged. I tucked her head against my shoulder, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

"Sera," I whispered, closing my eyes to better feel her heart beating against my chest. Her arms slid around my bare waist, her hands splaying wide across my back.

"Will you still let me stay?" she asked huskily.

I could only think of the word she had whispered earlier that had sent my heart racing.

"Yes."

* * *

Ugghhh, how dare you people keep me up till midnight... Erik really needs to stop pestering me to finish this story. I know he is anxious for the next chapter though...he he he...but it will have to wait. I'm exhausted. I can't even stay up for Craig Ferguson tonight. 


	45. Resurrection

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

* * *

This chapter is rated M for sexual content. Seriously, I haven't been this excited since I found an erotic novel in my Grandma's dresser.

* * *

At my answer, Sera's eyes darkened in the candlelight, and as she parted her mouth I leaned down to her, kissing her with more hesitation than I've managed to show in all the times we have kissed. I wouldn't assume that she had asked for a night of passion, but until she told me to stop, there was no way that I could. Her lips were soft and inviting, the warmth of our mouths meeting and electrifying me inside. I felt her hands slide across my back, over the raised scars, then higher up to my neck.

"Erik," she whispered against my mouth, "please show me how its supposed to be. Show me that its never about pain. _Please_."

I almost stopped her then, to tell her that I didn't know what to show her, but I swallowed the information, and kissed her again. She didn't need to know, and I had seen enough that I knew what she needed. Nadir had told me once that with reluctant women, the words are more important than the song. I hadn't understood the euphemism before, but I was beginning to. He had been trying to give me tips for the little harem girl the Sultana had sent me, but my own pride had never allowed an unwilling woman to come to me. I held one in my arms now, and it had taken far too many years to acquire her.

I lifted her hair away from her neck and undid a long row of buttons down her back, slowly, until they stopped near her waist. I spread my hands inside, finding the soft linen chemise damp between her shoulder blades. I kissed her neck, then pulled one shoulder off the gown, kissing her across the delicate bones, then back up to her neck again.

"Sera," I said thickly, "ask me to stop, and I will. Promise me," I looked into her eyes, "if you feel uncertain, just tell me."

"I won't," she said hoarsely, "I won't need to."

I turned her around in my arms, drawing her back against me as I kissed her bare shoulder. Her skin felt warm against my lips, and I was pleased to discover freckles along the ridge of her shoulder, and I did my best to kiss each one. I pulled the other half of the gown down, and she helped me push it down around her waist. Modesty over won her desire to be seductive, because she crossed her arms around her chest when I turned her back into my arms. I wrapped my arms around her entirely, my hands sliding over her skin, then I tugged her chemise out of the gown, working it over her head.

Blushing, she only moved her arms enough for me to get the garment off before her arms were back across her chest. I put my arms back around her, aching for her to touch me, but afraid to ask. I slanted my mouth across hers again, running my hand through her hair, exhilarated by the feel of her softness and sheer beauty.

"You're the most beautiful woman," I murmured.

I drew her against my chest, placing my hand against her lower back to tilt her body up to meet mine. She opened like a flower beneath me, her arms stealing up my neck to hold her balance. I grinned at her wickedly before I lowered my mouth to hers. There was nothing between her breasts and me, and I caught her under the ribs to be certain I wouldn't miss any contact. Her nipples pressed into my flesh like tiny diamonds, stealing my breath and sending the hard and waiting part of me throbbing painfully. She was breathing hard by then, her mouth sending out hot blankets of air against my neck. Her hands fumbled down from my neck to her waist, where she slid the rest of the gown over her hips. I reached down and hooked her at the knees, lifting her out of the gown. As I did, my eyes took in every inch of her, pain shooting into my heart when I saw that her body had scars just like her hands.

I set her on her feet, holding her away from me as I looked at her. She was staring at my chest, her face filled with remorse.

"What did he do to you?" I choked, "Oh, Sera. I'm so sorry."

I wished then that I had killed him. If I had known, if I had seen this, I would have made him suffer. Her wounds had healed some time ago, but just like Rachel, he had burned her almost everywhere. Her skin wasn't damaged, but the scarring was visible.

I traced my hand around the tops of her breasts, in the delicate hollow between them, and across her stomach. She was so slender, so beautiful. Nothing he had done to her changed my mind, but I would have given anything for it to never have happened at all.

Her white linen bloomers hid anything else from my view, and I pulled her to me again, forcing her to look me in the eyes.

"This will never happen to you again," I said softly, "and nothing that happened was your fault."

"Don't treat me any different," she said quietly, "I can't bear it."

I felt a growing hesitation in her body, and could see a defiant gleam in her eyes. I kissed her softly, hoping she would forget everything but me. I understood what she was asking. She didn't want my pity, any more than I wanted hers. She finally softened beneath me, and her hands once again started touching me, making me burn higher and hotter, then I took a deep breath and moved my hips forward. That she was receptive was an understatement. One of her knees shot up to my waist, and I caught it and held it there, then thrust against her again. Her head fell back as a low moan rolled out of her mouth. I stared at her in fascination, at the way her breasts jerked when I rocked against her, at the blooming red blush that was evident all across her skin. Her hands slid away from me, and I held her pliant and unresisting body to do with as I wished.

I stood her back upright, steadying her with my hands even as I took her breath away with my mouth. I kissed her throat, then lower, until she was clinching her fists through my hair as I took her nipple into my mouth. I razed my tongue across the peak, then to the neglected one, deciding that so far, this was my favorite part of her body.

"You're perfect," I groaned against her flesh.

"I'm too small," she whispered breathlessly.

"Why would a man need more?" I managed, before I took her back into my mouth.

"Erik, I'm going to go mad."

I wanted to tell her that I was already there. I had been the moment I had started fantasizing about her trim ankles beneath a hideous brown dress. Later, I promised myself, I would beg her to wear it, and see if I still thought she had ever been ugly in it.

She started moving backwards, away from me, only she was tugging at me the entire time. I realized dimly she was headed for the bed, but I could only see her through the haze across my eyes. I was aching for her so badly I wasn't sure if I could continue, but I knew that I would die if she asked me to stop. She halted before me and I watched as she tugged at the drawstrings holding her bloomers up. I closed my eyes, anticipation becoming something I was beginning to hate.

"I've just taken them off," she whispered seductively, "won't you at least look?"

Slowly, I did so, sucking in a deep breath at the sight of her. I reached out to touch her hips hesitantly, my hands gliding over the silken flesh, then squeezing. I loved the smooth angles of her body, the long and slender lines of her legs, and I longed to bury myself within the promise of the nest of dark hair between them.

I felt her hands touch my chest, then slide down through the hair to my stomach. She slid each of her index fingers inside the band of my trousers, lifting her eyes innocently to mine when I growled at her. She tugged the strap of my belt through the stay, jerked it slightly to loosen it from the catch, then her fingers pulled at the top button of my trousers, holding my gaze with a teasing smile. I took my boots off quickly, not wanting to be caught with my pants down, and with no way out of them, then sat against the bed as I slipped them off . There was no hiding anything from her now, even through the underpants, she could see me straining forcefully through. She said nothing, and did not even look away from me. I didn't see fear in her eyes, or even hesitation as she scurried up to the center of the bed, kneeling there like a perfect waiting promise.

When at last I was beside her on the bed, nothing was between us but air and opportunity. She placed her hands firmly against my shoulders as I lay her down, my hand pressed against her back as she arched up into me again and again. I knelt between her legs, loving the feel as she slid them up around my back. She wasn't about to let me go, I realized, not that I wanted to go anywhere, when she crossed her legsbehind my back. With one firm heel against my spine, she guided me closer to her.

"You have me where you want me," she whispered, "I'm here. I'm yours."

I nearly hit the ceiling when I felt her hand slip between us and wrap around me. She held me firmly in her hand, and I couldn't help but surge forward against her.

"Sera," I breathed raggedly against her, unable to stop myself from doing it again. Was there anything more exquisite? If this was what she could do for me, what could I possibly do for her?

When my hand eased between her locked legs, then brushed against her core, she cried out against my shoulder. I murmured soothingly to her, kissing her until she lay back against the bed again. I touched her again, feeling like a fumbling idiot, but she was moaning against me, her hips bucking beneath mine to let me inside her. Her legs released me so I could explore her, unhindered, and she released my length, which I regretted, as she forgot about what it was she had been doing.

She was warm, soft, and incredibly moist against my hand. I stroked her gently, kissing her when I felt like she was stiffening in my arms, whispering to her that I was there. She surrendered to me completely, opening so gently and trustingly that I couldn't help but bring her to the brink of madness. I looked into her eyes as I finally entered her, moving slowly and painfully forward inch by incredible inch, until there was nowhere else for me to go.

Except out, then back in again.

Buried inside her, I felt as vulnerable and near the edge as possible. I stared down into her beautiful face and couldn't stop thinking that I had been reborn. Nobody ever told me when it happens, you'll be resurrected. I'm not talking about sex.

"I love you, Sera."

She cried out in wonder, her eyes filling with tears, and I lost my nerve. I kissed her before she could make another sound, and began a slow and easy rhythm against her, making love to her the way I had wanted to for so long.

It was a wonder she hadn't raised Nadir from his chambers yet with the low and arousing moans that was spilling from her throat. I was thankful for them, because they were higher pitched than mine, effectively covering them up. The last thing I needed was somebody hearing me grunting like a ferocious boar. She arched against me from each end of her body, and I wondered at times if she was even touching the bed anymore. Her hips were bucking beneath me, urging me to go in a faster rhythm, but I kept it relentlessly slow, not wanting to waste a single moment.

I wanted to cherish every sensation, revel in every nerve that was on fire in my body. She was a beautiful and compromising lover, and I was trying to please her more than myself. Soon though, it became apparent that I no longer need to worry about her. She rose from the bed as she shattered beneath me, her eyes widening in apparent shock as the climax tore through her body. Her mouth parted in a silent scream, and I covered it before anything else could come tearing out of it.

I felt her clenching me inside, her walls shuddering around me, driving me over the edge. I thrust against her once more, driving myself deep in Sera, then all was lost as I felt the explosion of white light and blinding passion tearing through me.

* * *

Whew... I am glad that's over with. Let me know if it was too risque... 


	46. So Much for the Afterglow

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

_Sera_

The weight of him on my body was unadulterated delight. I had never known what pleasure it could bring, and as he started to move away from me, I stayed his movements with my hand. I could feel the lash marks on his back, and traced them slowly, feeling suddenly languid and sleepy. His breathing was slowing to normal, and I could still feel him inside me, the wonderful and incredible part of him I had barely glimpsed. I kissed his ear softly, nuzzling against him in a hazy pleasant afterglow. My mother had once told me about the overwhelming pleasure that a man received in bed, but she hadn't said anything about a woman's.

"That was indescribable," I finally managed to say against his ear.

"I didn't...hurt you?" he whispered, drawing his head back to look me in the eyes. A look of pure satisfaction was on his features. I smiled and leaned up to kiss him.

"Not once."

We seemed to be content with silence for awhile, kissing in the darkened room, still lying joined together. At some point several candles had died down, but there was still enough light that we could see each other. He withdrew from me and rolled to his side, looking at me hesitantly over his shoulder, then turning away.

"I'm...I'm going to take it off," he said, indicating his mask.

I smiled encouragingly, tugged the blanket over my hips, then turned onto my stomach. When I turned back, his hand was still holding the side of his face, although the mask was lying on the dresser. He rolled swiftly over and buried the right side of his face in the pillow, lying on his stomach the same as I was. I scooted closer to him, studying half of his face in the candlelight. I couldn't believe I had surrendered myself so completely to this man. To any man. He had brought me undeniable pleasure, and I had pleased him as well.

"Do you suppose everyone knows what we've been doing?" I asked softly.

To my surprise he blushed, turning his eyes away from mine in sudden shyness. I moved closer until our upper arms were touching, and I moved my leg to his, feeling the thick trunk of his leg was just as warm and slick as my own.

"I don't know," he admitted, "would it bother you if they did?"

"No. Although I wouldn't want to explain it to Peter."

He smiled, "He would have endless questions."

I grinned, just imagining it. I willed Merrill and Eleonore to hurry, so I wouldn't have to sneak back here tomorrow night. Or the night after.

My stomach suddenly tightened as I remembered what he had whispered to me during our lovemaking.

"I love you too, Erik," I said hoarsely, feeling as if my heart was going to burst.

His smile faded from his face, his eyes turning serious. I could see his pale green eyes flickering in the candlelight, and it looked as if they were moist. I moved my hand from under my body and brushed the hair away from his face. It was full and thick on the left side, and if he had cut it like I had tonight, he wouldn't have needed the wig as much. Probably a hat when outdoors would have covered up anything else on his head, but he hardly needed the wig.

He closed his eyes when I touched his head, and I heard him exhale against the pillow. I moved my fingers up to the spot on his head where he had been injured, tracing the slight scar, then moving my hand all through his hair. He seemed to enjoy it immensely, so I continued stroking his head until my arm grew tired. I pulled the sheet up to my breasts and rolled onto my side, facing him. I lay my hand across his back, moving my pillow and face close to his.

"Where did you receive all these scars?"

He opened his eyes then, and I realized that he had been nearly asleep.

"Durrikin. And my mother. One of them is from the Sultana."

I had heard him mention that name before. When I continued to look at him, he sighed.

"I worked for her husband, in Persia. I built a palace for him. That should have been my sole purpose, but his wife took one look at me and decided that I had much more to offer. I was to be an amusement for her," he said darkly, "she made me build things for her."

An amusement? I wondered. What sort of husband allowed his wife to use another man for amusement. I wasn't sure what he meant by it.

"Things?"

He closed his eyes briefly, drawing another deep breath. When he spoke again his voice was rough and so low I had to strain to hear him.

"Torture rooms. So she could watch men die."

I exhaled the breath I had been holding in sharply. I wasn't certain I had heard him correctly. What sort of insanity had he gotten himself into?

"So she could what?"

"She liked to watch people suffer. Liked to watch them die," he whispered, "she goaded me into building something for her. A room, an illusion. It made them hallucinate."

I watched his eyes, knowing that he felt complete shame for his time there. This woman sounded mad. Who could possibly enjoy witnessing something so grotesque. I shuddered, and Erik suddenly launched off the bed.

"I'm sorry. I should have told you," he choked out, stalking towards his armoire. I watched as he shrugged into a robe.

"Why? It's obviously something difficult for you to discuss."

"Sera, I'm a condemned man. You don't know me. You don't know everything," he rasped, "I'll be sent to hell when I die. With heavens blessing."

I scrambled from the bed, taking the sheet with me, "Don't say that. You have no idea what's in store for you."

He grunted at me, wandering towards the window. He looked so forlorn, so pained. The rain beat against the window as he pressed his forehead against it. I couldn't see the right side of his face, but I knew that he wasn't thinking about his mask anyway.

"She was a terrible woman," I said, "that doesn't extend to you. What she did...the judgment is reserved for her alone."

"At the time...I didn't care. I hated everyone. Mostly her. But I didn't care that those men died. I was...," he broke off suddenly, emotion choking him so tightly he slammed his eyes shut, "I was _proud_ of myself for building something so extraordinary. She was delighted with it, and paid me one of the first compliments I had ever received, even if it was condescending. It didn't take her long for her amusement with the room to dissipate. She wanted something more. Something deadlier...bloodier."

I went to stand beside him, resting my shoulder against the wall as I turned to face him. Silent tears rolled from his cheeks, hanging precariously along his jawline. The rain was reflecting on his face as well, making it seem as if he cried a million silent rivers.

"You care now don't you?"

His breath shot out of his chest suddenly, fogging up the entire window. He braced his hands against the pane, rolling his forehead against it, "_Yes. _It _haunts_ me. I was never so low...until Christine. I hope to never sink to that level of depravity again."

"Whatever you were before...you've changed. I know who you are now. I don't need to know who you were then," I whispered softly.

He turned his face towards me fully, and the left side of his face was cast in shadow while the right bore the brunt of the dim glare from the window. I reached up and touched his face, stepping closer when he flinched and pulled away. His eyes closed in misery, and I knew he regretted far more than me seeing his face.

"I love you," I said quietly, "do you even understand what that means?"

I half expected it, but was appalled when he shook his head at me.

"It means that there is nothing, _nothing_," I said harshly, cupping his face, "that can change this. That can change us. The past does not determine our relationship. Only the future. I know you think I will dwell on your darkness, that I should feel ashamed of what I feel for you."

When he closed his eyes, I knew that I was right.

"I don't. And I never will. I would hate to think that you ever thought less of me for what I've been through."

"Sera, you were the victim. I, on the other hand, was the culprit."

"_Was_. You did terrible things," I said softly, hating myself for causing him pain, "you acted out of spite, and hate, and a dark obsession for a girl I can't begin to understand. I've read part of those journals, and I have to tell you, there wasn't a lot going on in her mind. She was a few bricks shy of a load."

"She was perfect," he whispered, and I felt my heart stop.

Ten seconds of silence, then I finally managed, "Perfect? You think she was perfect?"

"Not in that sense. She was perfect for my deceit to work. Lonely, confused, defenseless. She believed everything I told her. I was an Angel, I didn't allow her to have a social life. She had to obey my every command, or I would abandon her. It was what she feared the most."

"Because of her father?"

"Yes. She was terrified of me leaving, yet she had no idea who I was."

I nodded. Most of what I had read confirmed this. She had been lonely, hadn't understood her new life in the theater, and she had missed everything about home. Her childhood friend, who I took was Raoul de Chagny, her father, and her beautiful homeland. She mostly wrote about her life in the chorus, Meg, and Madame Giry. So far, there had been no mention of Erik, or the Angel of Music, except that she was praying that her father would send him. It was a lot of useless and boring ramblings of a girl who hadn't understood much about life.

"You coached her...through the mirror?"

He closed his eyes, "Yes. It was the only way. I couldn't let her see me. She would have been frightened. But I could talk to her. I was like her in some ways. Alone. Terrified of abandonment, even though it was all I had ever known. She responded in such a trusting way, I couldn't help but start to feel...other things for her. Then I made a terrible mistake. I arranged for her to play lead in an opera, then de Chagny noticed her. I...I stole her from her dressing room. Oh, she went willing enough, thinking her Angel had finally come to her. Then she saw me. She...she removed my mask. And she knew."

"She took your mask?" I asked in shock. Obviously the girl had more guts than I gave her credit for. Either that or she was far too curious.

"Not once. But twice," he spat suddenly, "in front of the entire theater. During my performance."

I couldn't think of anything to say, so I stepped closer to him and wrapped my arms around him. His robe wasn't quite tied, and I dropped my sheet, positioning my body as close to his as possible. His stiff posture soon relaxed in my arms, and his arms slipped around me, touching my bare back. He found the lines of my own scars for the first time, and he looked at me questioningly.

"The factory. If you can't keep up, they beat you. If you are late, they beat you. There are a million other reasons, but often times they don't need one."

His eyes darkened in anger, and he slid his hands over my back restlessly, unknowingly bringing a different kind of fire to life inside of me.

"You will be a very wealthy woman by the end of the week. How does that make you feel?" he murmured.

"Wealthy?" I chuckled, "I'm not even sure what that means. Doesn't it have something to do with having money? I really have no clue."

"Lots of money," he amended sagely, and I knew he was glad for the change of topic. I would try my best not to bring up those subjects again, although with him, they were always beneath the surface, bubbling to life like a hot spring the instant the nerve was touched.

His hands threaded through my hair and I pitched my head back in delight. It was a wonderful sensation to feel his long fingers running through my hair. I slid my arms inside the robe and gripped his hips as he bent down to kiss me. His tongue slipped inside my mouth, stealing my breath and making my body ache with pleasure.

"Again?" I whispered seductively.

He moved his hips against me, "So it would seem."


	47. Late into the Night

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

* * *

OK, I said I wasn't going to get all steamy...but I guess Sera had other ideas...don't read it if you've never done _it _before. And you shouldn't do _it_ till you're married.

* * *

_Sera_

With nothing between us, not even his mask, we stumbled back to the bed in a sudden and unexpected blaze of desire. Gone was the gentleness and tenderness of our first time. This was a raging fire, and both of us trembled with the unspoken need and want of something more primal and fierce than before. My modesty was stolen as he kissed me on every available inch of skin, his tongue and teeth coaxing me to writhe against him, and I begged him to finally end my torment.

He raised his head and looked at me solemnly, then turned me over onto my stomach, sliding across my back like a provocative rogue. His tongue swept a path from the base of my spine to my neck, and I nearly pitched him off me from the sheer pleasure of it. I realized then, that I had not hardly touched him. It wasn't until I finally had him on his back against the bed that he realized his mask was gone. I saw the change in him immediately, the way he darted a glance toward the dresser, the half hearted attempt to reach it.

I leaned forward suddenly and ran my hand from his knee to very high on his thigh. His eyes slid closed, and he forgot everything but me. I felt in control, empowered, and yet I had no idea what to do with him. I almost asked him, but he suddenly caught my hand and moved it where he wanted it. I draped over his body, watching his face as I caressed him, loving the way he thrust against my hand, the way his eyes fluttered shut each time I did it, then opened to stare at me in fascination.

"Sera," he groaned, catching my wrist.

He tugged on me, pulling me across his chest, and I slid my legs over his in delight, very excited about trying something so strange. Surely he didn't mean for me to...

"Erik," I breathed harshly as he entered me. I closed my eyes as he held himself there, tightly inside of me.

"Move," he commanded.

I obeyed, uncertainly at first, but his hands gripped my hips, showing me the rhythm he wanted. It was fast and thunderous, and I struggled to meet his demands. The pleasure shooting through me was obscure at times, and blinding when it was on target. I leaned forward, kissing him deeply with as much pressure as I dared, capturing his lips just the way I wanted. He was caressing me everywhere, driving me insane with his hands, and I leaned forward to allow his mouth access to my breasts and throat. He dined like a king.

When I could take no more, when the elusive earth shattering would not come and my muscles were too tired to continue, he rolled us both over, driving back inside strong and sure. He grabbed my hands, holding them above my head and interlocking our fingers. He thrust against me, then again, and I saw his face disappear before me as my eyes rolled back in my head, and the brilliant burning light obliterated everything but the sensations barreling through me.

"I..I can't keep quiet," I panted against his shoulder, and he smothered my mouth with his, rocking against me three solid times before he too joined me, exploding into a climax that left him groaning against me and clutching me to him as if letting me go would be devastating.

"If you wanted to kill me, there are easier ways," he said breathlessly, rolling over to his side. He pulled me into the crook of his arm, tracing his finger over my face gently.

"If I wanted to kill you, I would wait till after the ceremony. I would much rather be a wealthy widow than a poor rag girl whose fiance died," I teased.

"I'd like to move away from here," he said quietly, "do you have any suggestions? I have several estates."

"I don't wish to return to Paris. That is my only request."

He sighed suddenly, "Do you remember the letter I had you send Merrill? The note I had you send when you sent Eleonore an invitation?"

I nodded my head, reaching out to play with his hair. I hoped that he would stop wearing the wig. I loved his natural color.

"I had him check on your mother."

I stopped moving suddenly. My mother?

"I was going to see if it were possible for her to attend the wedding, without the influence of your stepfather. If he was out of the picture."

"And?" I asked nervously.

"We won't know until Merrill returns. But Nadir only mentioned Eleonore. I can only assume that means she isn't coming," he said gently, "I'm sorry. I should have asked first. I just wanted to give you something special on your wedding day."

"It will be," I promised, but I was shaken. What if he found me? I lowered my eyes, not wanting him to see how terrified I was. If Franck Derring found me, if he found Peter, he could take him. Legally he belonged to Derring. I knew if he touched either of us, he was a dead man. Erik had proven himself quite capable of taking care of that. But I didn't want him to. It was obviously not something he wanted to do again. I wished that I could erase all his pain, but I know if he's been carrying it around this long, no doubt he will bear it forever.

"You would want her here, wouldn't you?"

"If it were possible, yes. But she was...different when I left. She was in terrible pain. He knocked all her teeth out, and he kept her in supply of morphine and other drugs. She was very delusional. I think she thought my father was still alive. I can't imagine there being any way for her to make it."

"I'm sorry, I wish I had asked you first. You spoke fondly of her before, of your lessons."

"That was before my father died. She tried to protect us at first, then she couldn't. He hurt her too badly," I said softly.

I didn't even realize I was crying until I felt him wiping away my tears.

"My mother hated me."

I looked at him, startled, "Your birth mother? How could she have hated her own son?"

"She couldn't stand the sight of me. I was a terrible child. Always causing trouble, always aggravating her. I wouldn't keep my mask on, and it would infuriate her," he muttered.

"You think you were terrible, because you wouldn't keep your mask on?" I asked slowly. I hadn't realized that not even his own parents had buffered him from the world. Had he truly been set loose in the world with nothing, no kind words, nobody to kiss his wounds, to comfort him when he cried?

"I was."

"No," I reached out to touch his right cheek, "there was never anything wrong with you. You have to forget anything you've ever heard about yourself, Erik, because the world is who was wrong. Not you. Never you."

I wondered how long it would take to undo the damage, if possible, that the world had caused him. That Christine had caused him. I couldn't see fixing close to forty years worth of hate and loneliness with a few kisses and passionate nights. There was more that needed to be done here. But what? He was so volatile. Every time we had one of these conversations, he withdrew into a darkness so deep, I had to struggle to bring him back. I know how he feels. If I ever had to open up completely, to release the pain, to tell all, I think I would rather die. I intend to keep my past just where it is, in the past. But he needs to let go. For him to embrace his life, to be redeemed, there is only one road for him.

Confession is good for the soul.

I hated to be his confidante, because it meant that I would have to bully him, prod him into revealing things he never wished to reveal. He may end up changing his mind about me after all.

"Your mother didn't deserve you. What was your father like?"

"He died before I was born. I think that was another reason she hated me. I should have been like him. Instead I was cursed with this face, with a mind that wouldn't slow down fast enough for even the best tutor she could afford. She hated that as well. That I was...advanced for my age," he said quietly.

"A mathematical genius?" I teased softly.

"Musical, mathematical, it didn't matter. I absorbed everything from history to foreign language. She especially hated my music though."

"I love your music."

It was a simple statement, yet it seemed to cause a complete change in him. Almost eagerly he pinned me to the bed, his eyes glowing in the soft light.

"Truly?"

"I would love it even more if you didn't become angry with me next time you played," I said dryly.

His eyes filled with remorse, "I'm sorry. I get caught up sometimes...I was remembering something unpleasant that night."

"Christine?"

He nodded, and I narrowed my eyes at him.

"I asked you to play me something, and you were thinking of her?" I said harshly.

"It was something I had written for her," he replied slowly.

He must have seen the red eyed monster looming before him, because he sat up suddenly, apologizing profusely.

"You wanted to hear something I'd written," he protested, "but everything I had written was for her."

"Everything?" I almost shouted.

"Almost everything. I...everything else was destroyed or lost. I destroyed it. I haven't written anything new. Not since we met. I can't. I've tried, but I can't. I don't want to."

"Why?" I whispered, feeling like I was dying inside.

He lowered his face to mine, "Because for the first time in my life, music has paled in comparison to something. I have something _tangible_, I have something _real_, and no amount of words or beauty in my mind could do justice to what I feel for you. Why would I want to hide in my room all day alone, when I could be doing this?"

He covered my mouth with his, and all I could do was respond. His answer exhilarated me, and I felt myself sliding deeper and deeper into his strange and eccentric world. He was gruff, austere, and yet when he said something like that, melting me all the way to my toes, I couldn't help but believe that we would be happy together.

"What do you think of that?" he whispered roughly.

"Oh, it pleases me."

"Does it?" he smiled softly, "Because you have been driving me out of my mind."

"I thought you had forgotten about me for the last two weeks. Because you wouldn't give me the ring. I found them when I was cleaning," I admitted hoarsely.

"You terrified me. I thought you would change your mind. And the last thing I could have done was forget about you," he said, "I love you."

"I love you too."

He smiled softly, then pulled me against him. I lay my head against his chest and listened to his heart beating against my ear. I fell asleep with him stroking my hair, thinking that my life could not possibly be anymore perfect.


	48. Pre Dawn

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

I woke up about two hours before daybreak, listening to her breathing in the darkness. If it weren't for her lying here next to me, I wouldn't believe that last night had actually happened. I could only hope that when she woke up, she wasn't going to regret it. I sure as hell didn't. For the first time since I had proposed, I allowed myself to think about what marrying her meant. If it was this, every night, or even every other night, I would be indebted to her. She was magnificent, alive and brimming with passion. I reached out to touch her in the darkness, thinking I would be stroking her back, pleasantly surprised to have grabbed her breast. She sighed and murmured something in her sleep.

I moved my hand to her stomach, touching her soft and silky skin, tracing lazy circles over her flesh. She caught my hand before it could travel any lower and brought it to her mouth, pressing a slow and wet kiss to my palm.

"Are you awake?" I asked softly.

"I am now," she replied, sounding only slightly irritated.

"You have to go to your cottage. Before everyone is awake. Peter and Rachel probably wondered where you were all night."

"They think I was asleep in my room. I crawled out the window," she said, stretching lazily against me.

"You what?" I asked slowly.

"I went to my room last night, closed the door, then crawled out the window. Then I came back up here to wait for you." she said, "You didn't think you'd get off the hook that easy did you?"

I pulled her against me, trying not to laugh. She was beautiful, passionate, and unpredictable. And all mine.

"Are you...going to go back in the same way?" I asked, bemused.

"Of course not. I'll just go through the back door," she muttered, as if climbing in a window was more preposterous than climbing out.

She threaded her legs through mine, slipping one arm around my back and leaned forward to kiss me.

"If you start this again, we will be caught," I whispered.

She groaned and sank back onto the pillows, "I know. And I no longer care, really."

I got out of the bed, the temptation of her was strong enough. I lit the lamp and replaced my mask, realizing suddenly what we had done while I hadn't been wearing it. I turned around to look at her, and she was watching me with heavy lidded eyes.

"Are you going to wear the...hair?" she asked suddenly.

"Yes."

"I like yours," she said, then looked away suddenly, blushing.

"Thank you. But I would rather...keep everything the same. At least outside of this room," I replied quietly.

She smiled, obviously pleased that I would at least not wear it around her. She had been fascinated more with my head than my mask, which had driven me nearly insane. Now, though, I was glad of it. She was an artist herself with those scissors.

"I...could you hand me my...," she began, unable to meet my eyes. They were fixated on her chemise on the floor.

"Its a little late for modesty," I remarked, but scooped it up and handed it to her.

"We've already...and I...," she whispered, tugging the linen garment over her head.

I glanced down at my own naked body, seeing that she was staring at me. Then I too felt the whip of embarrassment. I picked my robe up off the floor and slid it across my shoulders. She had somehow managed to slip into her bloomers by the time I finished tying it. We stared at each other in amusement.

"I suppose we'll have to get used to this, after we're married," she said hoarsely.

"I suppose," I replied, walking towards her.

She leaned forward to brush a kiss against my bare chest, then up to my lips. Her hand reached out to trace the mask as she did, then sliding back through my hair. She felt wonderful and warm in my arms, her skin like hot satin, sleek and soft.

"Do you think we'll get married today?" she asked.

"Possibly tomorrow," I said, smiling when she sighed in disappointment.

"Can I come back tonight?"

"If you don't mind sneaking out a window, then I suppose not," I murmured.

She moved away from me to slip into her gown, and I stood behind her to help with the buttons. The domestic and simple gesture stole my breath away, and by the time I had finished I was swallowing painfully from the emotion in my throat.

"Are you going down the front stairs?"

"There's another one?" she whispered.

"Servants entrance. But I've never used it. It could be...filled with all sorts of creatures."

She shuddered, "No. I'd rather see Nadir or Madame Giry than a rat. Or anything else."

I dressed quickly and escorted her down to the kitchen, thankful that we were unseen. The sky was still dark out, and the rain had finally stopped, leaving it slightly cool and breezy outside. I walked part of the way with her, then kissed her before heading towards the barn. She slipped through her back door, and moments later I saw the light in her bedroom window turn on. I realized with a smile that it was the room I had occupied while I was injured. I turned around in the barn, and found myself staring into Nadir's dark eyes.

"Good morning," he said smoothly, leaning against the wall.

I said it back, but not nearly as pleasantly. He watched as I gathered some water for Atlas, and some liniment for his leg.

"You really should be more careful next time you ride him," he instructed, earning another not so pleasant response.

"He's a fine horse, but if you wanted sturdiness and endurance, you should have bought an Arab. You know what a magnificent breed it is," he remarked.

"They are in short supply around here," I ground out, "this isn't Persia. He's a Hanoverian. This is Europe. We buy European breeds."

"What's the mare?"

"Part dog, I think," I said, giving him a wry grin.

He laughed, then reached over to pet her on the neck, "She's perfect for the boy. Gives him some confidence."

I leaned down to Atlas and rubbed water on his leg. He was pretty much healed, but I would continue this until I was sure that his leg was no longer bothering him. I rubbed the opodeldoc on his leg, wincing as the smell assaulted me. Nadir even stood as far away as he could manage as he watched me. I dipped my hands into the water, knowing that it wouldn't begin to remove the smell. Atlas dropped his head towards me, blowing against my arms and shoulders. Cesar would have taken a chunk out of my shoulder in my vulnerable position, but the bay just nuzzled me.

"You may have to buy a pull behind if you're planning on moving soon. He won't be able to withstand a journey, if you plan on taking him of course."

"I hadn't thought of it. I may buy a work horse as well, to pull him. The mare couldn't possibly handle both him and a cart," I mused.

"I'm glad you have found happiness, Erik. I thought for a long time that you never would."

"So did I," I said softly.

I had actually never believed that I would find it, but I am content. I closed my eyes as I, thinking of last night. I couldn't wait for this day to be over with. I left the horses for Peter to feed, and we were walking back to the house when Sera emerged from the cottage, dressed in a different gown. Her eyes widened when she saw us, but she kept walking, moving quickly until she was in the house.

"She's good for you."

I turned to give him a long stare. He had no idea.


	49. Resolution

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

* * *

I'm not leaving you hanging on this story, but a really good one came to me, and I decided to go with it, so check it out and review! It will be a mixture of many things, with the first part centering on Persia, and the last part taking place after the fire. Some will be in the leading lady's POV, and later on some will be in Erik. There are pleasant surprises in store...

* * *

_Sera_

Erik and Nadir left that morning, both mounted on the two horses. Erik walked Atlas slowly, occasionally glancing down at his leg as he rode around the paddock. Apparently deciding that he would be fine, they turned in the direction of Lyon. Madame Giry again surprised me by helping us prepare breakfast, and after she retired to the library, I slipped back up to Erik's room to retrieve the journal. She raised her brows at me when I sank into Erik's chair, but resumed reading a heavy text that came from the classical literature section of his library.

I pored over the first journal, and was nearly to the last page of boring and mundane lists of Christine's activities in the chorus before I ever saw the Angel of Music, mentioned as if she had indeed met him. I looked up at Madame Giry instantly, but she appeared absorbed in her book. Lowering myself into the chair, feeling small and petty for becoming instantly absorbed in something so strange, I read:

_The Angel came! Yes he did! I knew Papa would not have lied to me forever. I was ready to relinquish everything, to give up any and all hope of ever singing, but his presence was with me tonight, his powerful and angelic voice stealing around me, comforting me, saving me..._

_People will think I am mad if I discuss it! Madame already says my head is not fit for the earth, that it belongs in the sky with the rest of the clouds. I have been told that if I wish to pursue music, I must obey him. I have never been disobedient, so I promised him that I will do whatever he asks of me. As long as that magical and mysterious voice will visit me again, so firmly entrenched in my mind that I am no longer sure what is real, and what is a dream. If he will be there for me, and never leave, I know that somehow I shall survive..._

I read the lines again, astonished at the naïve girl who had written them. How could she have believed something so utterly ridiculous? In apprehension, I read on:

_He was angry tonight. I pleaded with him to reveal himself. I don't think I have ever been more frightened. His rage and displeasure was so extreme, I wondered why he had ever bothered with me at all. If he disliked me so much, surely his talent could have been used on someone more deserving. I pray that he will return to me. I will try so very hard not to anger him again._

The rest of that journal finished out in the same manner, and I began to get a clear picture of Erik's love-hate relationship with the girl. She had destroyed the quiet confident life he had built for himself, enchanting him with her innocence, and when she had wanted to meet him, he had felt terror unlike any he had known. Only through the mirror was it safe. Seeing beyond, looking upon his face, to him that meant the death of their relationship. I tossed the book onto the desk and buried my head in my hands.

"Is everything okay?" Madame Giry asked softly.

"No. I don't understand what possessed him to pursue such a girl. She was the last thing he needed. Too young, too ignorant!" I said frustrated. "Why would he have wanted someone like that?"

"He didn't. He wanted nothing to do with her. At first." Madame Giry sighed, "He fell in love with her without trying. He didn't want to feel anything. Erik always thought he was above such..._human_ emotions. Until he heard her singing."

"But he _is_ human," I said, exasperated. Why was this a hard concept for everyone to understand? There was no strange evolution that resulted in his form. There was no explanation other than that he belonged to the human race. I was beginning to hate the world, as much as I suspected he did.

"If you heard him talk before he came here, you would not have believed it. He didn't believe it. You have done many great things for him. I have no idea how you managed it, but your own misfortune has touched him. The soul of a weary fool seeks comfort in tragedy."

I sighed and reached for the next journal, dismissing Madame Giry with an apologetic look. I was ready to finish this. I was tired of feeling jealous of a woman who had no right to ever have touched the man that I was going to marry. The man I love.

This journal wasn't updated nearly as frequently, but it spoke of the Angel's anger that Christine had reunited with Raoul de Chagny. He was terribly furious with her for not being firm enough with the Vicomte, for not sending him off like a whipped pup. He had condemned her to his silence, and it had been two weeks since his last conversation with her. She had decided to accept Raoul's invitation to dinner. I turned the page, unprepared for what was undoubtedly the breaking point with Erik's sanity.

_I don't remember leaving my room, although now I know that he fleeced me from it after my performance. I don't remember descending five floors below the theater, but I know that I was conscious. On my return, I was feeling a constant surge of memories, yet I had never seen the hollow and damp passageways before, had I? _

_I woke to the sound of the most extraordinary music, and sitting at the frightening organ was the most seductive and fearsome creature I have ever seen. I am hesitant to call him a man, yet when I took the mask away (yes I took it. I couldn't bear to not see the angelic features for another moment) I was astounded by the rage and hate that was thrown from those beautiful lips. Such violent and horrific words, from my Angel. _

_Only he isn't my Angel._

_I was right. The Angel of Music isn't real._

_Erik is real. _

_I wonder now if the tragedy of his face makes a difference. I am drawn and repulsed by the power, by his command. He is so very dark, so very cold. He will barely allow me to touch his hand when he takes me back to the theater. I am nothing to him but a spoiled child. He told me he will return for me, and I shiver in fear and anticipation. Surely he will not deny me his voice, the only thing from him I still crave._

She used him! I read the words again, unbelieving. She had used him, only wanting to hear his voice. Of course, hers had been what had drawn him to her. I felt a depressing leaden weight sink into me. I had nothing like that to offer him. How could I compare to something as beautiful as Christine, and her seraphic voice?

_I have angered him again, by my reckless and unrelenting love for Raoul de Chagny. I have loved him for far too long to cut him from my life. After all, we have only been reunited! I have tried to dissuade him, but I admit I have not tried my best. Raoul and I have been on the roof of the theater, and there we have pledged our love. There, we planned to steal away in the night, to forget the terrible and all consuming passion that Erik has over me. I know if I stay in his world, I will never see the light. He is beautiful and imposing, and far too much of a man for me to understand. His very complex nature frightens me, but I feel that I will miss him far more than I want to. His voice, his face, are forever branded on my heart. I often wonder what it would feel like, to just once kiss him. A simple kiss, just to see if he is indeed a man. _

_I think that would upset him terribly. He is above all, a gentleman. I am preparing for the Bal Masque, and wonder if the three months that have passed will have rendered me as only a memory for him._

Where was the supposed love affair? Shouldn't there be some mention of that by now? I sighed, then continued:

_The Bal Masque was a disaster! Erik came striding in, all in a gory red costume, and now I find out he has discovered my engagement. I tremble in fear from his wrath. He is very hurt, very angry. I felt his pull last night, during the masquerade, and I realized there is more inside of me for him than just his power. I fear that I love him, in an unearthly and all consuming way. The shallow and superficial love that I feel for Raoul in no way compares to the darkness and ecstasy I feel when I am in Erik's presence. _

_I shiver thinking about the upcoming performance. I will be Amnita, and it will be my first performance since the I first truly met Erik. I wonder if he will be there. I wonder if I will see him. One can only hope...and one can only fear._

I closed the book. I had read far enough about this girl. She was so confused, I don't even think she knew what love meant. Certainly not whatever it was she had felt for Erik. Not my Erik. I realized I was alone in the library, and that it had grown late in the morning. I stood up and tossed the journal onto the desk beside the other one. I had enough of her insipid life. It was time to get on with my own. She was a troublesome and annoying pest in my side, and there was nothing I wouldn't do to finally be rid of her. As I walked back towards the kitchen I was disturbed by the front door being rapped upon.

I strode to it eagerly, hoping that the wait was over, that I would see on the other side who I had been waiting for. Smiling at me in hesitation was Eleonore, and standing behind her scowling was Merrill. I breathed in relief, and ushered them inside.


	50. Bury the Past

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

_Sera_

I was grateful that they had finally arrived. Eleonore embraced me gently, then looked around in wonder at the changes in the chateau.

"Oh, this looks fantastic, Sera. I'm sure Erik is pleased with all the changes you've made," she said kindly.

I looked around in confusion. The only thing different was more furniture, and Erik had supplied most of that. My only mark on the house was that it was clean. I led them into the library, grateful for a distraction from those blasted journals. Madame Giry came in behind us shortly afterwards, and I was obliged to make introductions. I wasn't sure if Eleonore knew anything about Erik, so I remained silent on his connection to Madame Giry.

"So, where is the groom?" Eleonore asked in a cheerful tone.

"I'm not sure what he's doing, but I believe he went into Lyon," I said.

I glanced at Merrill, and he began to look uncomfortable. I remembered suddenly that he had news of my mother, and my heart tightened in my chest. I balked at asking him outright, not with everyone present. I wanted Erik with me when I heard the news, no matter what it was.

"How is he?" she asked quietly, and I saw an intense apprehension in her eyes.

"He is Erik," I returned wryly, but added, "but I don't think he has cause to complain about anything."

She gave me an encouraging smile, "Has he behaved?"

I nearly choked, but somehow managed to give a small nod. Merrill was watching me with a slightly amused took now, although he was trying his best to hide it. Madame Giry smiled at the hands she studied in her lap.

"I had hoped you two would get along," she said, "I guess it worked out far better than I expected. Really, when I left I thought you two might kill each other."

The words were meant as a joke, which I took it as, but Madame Giry's eyes took on a sudden darkness, and I tried to smooth things over.

"Yes, well, he is stubborn, and he still has the manners of a goat," I said casually.

"I do?"

I turned around to find Erik looking at me with a mixture of consternation and amusement. I felt my face heat, and leapt up from my chair to greet him. When I leaned in to press a kiss to his cheek, I murmured against his ear, "Yes, you do."

Eleonore stood to greet him as well, and the warm exchange was not missed by Madame Giry.

"I'm so happy for you both," she said, leaning over to place a hesitant hand across his.

He cupped her elbow and escorted her back to her chair, politely inquiring if she needed anything.

"Oh, I'm not a guest!" she laughed, "I'm the former housekeeper. Really, I assumed you needed me to help prepare for the wedding, nothing more."

"You are a guest, Eleonore. I very much hoped that you could come," he said quietly, "and if there is anything you need, we have a new girl working here who can attend to everything."

"You're too generous," she said, arranging her skirts across her legs.

"Merrill," he said, glancing over at the man skulking behind the bookshelves, "I trust your journey was pleasant."

"Of course, Monsieur Gervais. We made excellent time."

"I have some matters for you attend to, perhaps you could find a way to stop by later this evening?"

"Of course," he returned quickly, grateful that he was being excused.

Erik glanced down at the desk then and saw the pair of journals lying there. He caught my eye, and I gazed steadily back at him. I had a couple of questions for him, and I knew he was worried about the fact that I had read them.

"Would you ladies please excuse us, I need to speak with Sera," he murmured, then led me out to the conservatory.

"What were you doing today?" I asked slowly when he opened the doors to the room.

"Getting our wedding arranged," he said over his shoulder, "I hope that is okay. I didn't want to wait in case Merrill didn't make it."

"Not at all," I replied, "I trust you didn't ask for decorations in black."

He turned and gave me a puzzled look, "Black?"

"Your room is black, your clothes are black. The only reason you have to fear me calling off our wedding is if you asked them to decorate the church in black."

"Thats the only reason?" he whispered.

"Of course." I said softly, "You really have to get over this irrational fear. I'm not calling anything off," I paused and smiled suddenly, "unless you did choose black."

"No. I wasn't sure what you wanted, so I asked for bright orange."

I stared at him for several moments, until I saw the smile slowly cracking his face.

"You have an odd sense of humor," I admonished, but rewarded him with a kiss.

"Did you finish the journals?" he asked quietly, pulling away from me slightly.

"I read what I wanted, and I refuse to read anything more."

He tensed in my arms, "What does that mean?"

"It means I don't care what happened, which is what I've been trying to tell you. I do have a question though." I said cautiously, "Why wasn't there a mention of the affair?"

"Sera, there was no affair," he said tightly, "never. I...I have never had an affair, of any sort."

"You and Christine never...?"

"No," he said hoarsely, looking intensely pained.

"Then why? Why would you do something so desperate?" I asked urgently, "Why were you so determined to win her?"

His eyes darkened, and he gripped me tightly.

"Because I'm not sane. That's why you shouldn't be marrying me," he bitterly.

"How can you believe those things about yourself?" I whispered furiously. I wanted to reach out and slap him for such thoughts! "You can't possibly know how many nights I've lain awake in terror and fear of the dark. _You _are sane. _I _am sane. But everyone has moments, Erik. Everyone has something to hide, something they fear exposing to everyone," I closed my eyes and drew in a breath, "I fear, more than anything that I will be found by my stepfather, and that he will take Peter away. I fear that he will tie me to my bed again and beat me...that he will...,"

Erik pressed a finger over my mouth, and I opened my eyes to find his tormented expression through my tears.

"He will _never _take Peter, and he will_ never _hurt you."

"Please believe that there is nothing in your past that can shock me more than what happened to me. Bernard wasn't even close to the worst pain I have ever felt," I said tightly, "...the guilt of denying Peter his sight. He looks like that because of me, and I will have to live with that for the rest of my life."

"That wasn't your fault," he insisted, "there was nothing you could have done."

"I could have lain there and taken it like I should have, instead of fighting and screaming."

He exhaled sharply, "Peter doesn't blame you. You need to let that go, Sera," he sighed, "I think we both need to let go of a lot of things."

He wrapped his arms around me, tucking my head beneath his chin. I drew strength and comfort from him, burying my face against his chest and inhaling deeply. I loved this man, and there was nothing more I wanted to do than marry him and put the past behind me. Both of our pasts. It was tiring and draining, and rehashing it was getting us nowhere.

"Are you going to read the journals?" I asked nervously.

"No," he replied swiftly.

"Then I think we should get rid of them."

He tightened his arms around me, "We'll do it tonight," he whispered against my head.

"If you want to read them, I understand. But I don't want them to always be there, between us, reminding you of your past," I said harshly.

"Neither do I. I just wanted you to understand what happened, what I did."

"I don't understand it, but I wasn't there," I said, "and I honestly don't care," I leaned back to look into his face, "I'm sorry she hurt you, Erik. I'm sorry that your life has been what it has been. But the past is just that, and it's your future, our future that concerns me. I just want to make you happy."

"You do."

Words could not describe the feelings those two simple words elicited. I beamed at him and tossed my arms around his neck, kissing him with a lighthearted passion that would have been better suited for a frivolous girl. He stared at me in amusement but allowed me to give him the strange affection, dutifully supplying his lips for my wondrous actions.

"I hope its always this way," I whispered, "I want to be your wife, and give you everything that you haven't had."

He kissed me with slow deliberateness, making me sigh and relive those moments from the night before, giving me hope that we could repeat them tonight, and every night afterwards.

"It will be," he promised solemnly, gazing at me with a certain and steady gaze that only Erik can muster in the most troubling of times.

Yet, I believed him.


	51. This Woman

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

After dinner I left the ladies to do the dishes, or whatever it was that had them cackling in the kitchen like a bunch of hens, and retreated to the library with Peter. He was poring over a book on the history of the Roman Empire, ignoring me and Nadir as we ignored each other.

I had stopped by the chapel in Lyon today and arranged the small wedding for Sera and I, then had Nadir go inside a boutique _full_ of women to arrange for one of them to put some decorations inside the church. I honestly had no idea what they had chosen, and only hoped Sera was pleased. I prayed that she wouldn't regret having something so small and hurried, but there was no need for something elaborate. I just wanted to marry her. I was easy to please.

I glanced over to the journals on the desk, wondering what the best way to get rid of them would be. Burning, probably, although lighting a fire in the heat of the summer wasn't the most brilliant idea I'd ever had. I had no problems getting rid of them. I should have done it the moment I laid eyes on them.

I heard a knock on the door, and then Rachel's voice from the hall, "Monsieur Merrill? I'm Rachel, the new housekeeper. Please come this way."

I stood up when he entered, indicating to Nadir that I would need some privacy.

"Peter?" I said carefully, "Could you ask Sera to come in here? I need to discuss something with her."

He grumbled as he left the room, giving me a belligerent look as he took the book with him.

"Merrill," I said quietly, "is it bad news? About Sera's mother?"

"Most of it," he said, "but not all."

I relaxed a little, studying the nervous sheen around his eyes.

"Are you tired of working for me?"

"Monsieur?" he asked, "I beg your pardon?"

I repeated it, slower.

"No...you are very generous. You always have been," he said cautiously.

"Yes, but I am very tiring aren't I?" I spread my hands out to him in a defensive gesture, "Relax, I'm not going to thrash you. I just want to know if you are content."

"You are tiring," he admitted, "exceedingly tiring."

"Have you ever thought about hiring an assistant?"

He nodded eagerly, "I didn't think you would approve."

"I wouldn't have. But I have been feeling some remorse for taking up so much of your life. I am willing to allow the right person to assume some control over my estates. I trust you to choose the right man."

"Thank you, Monsieur Gervais," he said hastily, "I will start looking immediately."

"How many estates do I have left?"

"Four that are habitable. Countless other properties that are not. Why do you ask?"

"I'll be moving from here in the future. I trust you haven't accepted any new clients since you arrived here?"

"No," he said quietly.

"I'll need to sit down with you and discuss the terms of your employment, but if you wish, you are free to accompany me to the next city. If not, we can make other arrangements for our communications."

We agreed on a day after the wedding to negotiate, and he would bring buy a list of the estates that I had remaining for Sera and I to look at.

"Erik?" Sera asked nervously, "Peter said you wanted to see me."

Her eyes were fixed on Merrill as she took small, reluctant steps into the room. Her anxiety was heightened further when Merrill stepped around her to close the library door.

"Mademoiselle, I have a letter from your mother," he said gently, pulling an envelope from his pocket, "she regretted that she could not attend your wedding, but says she hopes to see you again someday soon. I...," Merrill glanced at me a moment, "I took the liberty of paying for her liberation from...an a-asylum."

Sera's eyes snapped from the envelope to mine, then back to Merrill.

"Asylum?" she whispered hoarsely, "He put her in an asylum?"

"No. The gendarmes, after she...she killed your stepfather, Franck Derring."

She swayed slightly, and I strode across the room to steady her, giving Merrill a malevolent look, just for being the messenger.

"Asylum?" she repeated, horrified.

"She's been there for two years. I paid to have her released, quietly, of course, and set her up with a nurse to care for her until she recovers her strength."

"Has she retained her faculties?" I asked mildly.

"She regained them once they put her in there. Without the m-morphine, she says that her mind eventually started functioning again," he stammered nervously.

I reached out and took the envelope from his hands, placing it in Sera's hand. She held it out to me, "Read it to me. Please," she whispered, her face white with shock.

"Are you sure?" I murmured.

"I'm sure," she repeated dully.

"Merrill, if there anything else that can be done for Madame Derring's comfort, see to it," I said, then dismissed him.

I pushed Sera gently into a chair then knelt in front of her with the letter. She stared at it with wide, frightened green eyes, slightly glazed over. I opened the letter and scanned it quickly, making sure there was nothing too terribly shocking inside, before I began to read:

_My dearest daughter,_

_I cannot tell you how happy it made me to hear that you are getting married. I have longed to hear something from you since they put me in that dreadful place. I cannot entirely hate it though, because if it weren't for their methods, I would still be addicted to that mind numbing drug. I have shed a million tears for your fate, and for Peter, because I know what happened to you both, and it was entirely my fault. I should have chosen more wisely in a husband, and my precious children suffered because of my carelessness. I hope my actions toward Franck Derring don't shame and shock you. A mother is a terrible person to offend, and he hurt my babies far more than I ever should have allowed. Please forgive me._

_Tell Peter that I love him, and that once I have regained my strength I hope to see him once again. I have been very ill since I was put in the institution, and have been confined to my bed for far too long. I wish to see the sunshine once more. Thanks to your betrothed, whoever he may be, I have been released from the dark and dreary world of the asylum, and someday I may feel it caressing my skin again. I know you are to be wed soon, and may in fact already be wed, but if you have not, please do not wait for me. I know it will take a long time for me to recover, and I wouldn't want your plans put on hold for my sake. I hope that you will visit after you are settled, and I can't wait to meet your husband, and see both you and Peter again._

_All my love,_

_Mother_

I looked up to see Sera crying softly, sobs that tore at my heart as she buried her face in her hands.

"She's alive," she whispered, "she is."

I gathered her in my arms and tucked her head against my neck, making soothing sounds to her until she finally quieted.

"If you want to wait to get married, we can," I said softly, and earned a viscous pinch in the side, "What the hell was that for?" I hissed, rubbing my ribs.

"For being obtuse," she muttered, and buried her face back in my neck.

"You are a contradictory woman, you know that right?"

"I am a woman. We're all contradictory," she said placidly.

I didn't dare agree, but continued to hold her for several more moments. Her hands slipped inside my overcoat, and I tensed, expecting another pinch, but she sighed and wrapped her arms around my back, stroking over the scars gently.

I kissed her temple softly, then her jawline, and she turned her mouth to meet mine with a gentle groan. I held her head in my hands as I kissed her, letting our tongues touch hesitantly, then slide along each other in a slow, easy roll. She brought her hands up and placed them on either side of my face, and I held still, thinking she was going to remove the mask. I wasn't sure how I felt about that. The wounds were still fresh from having an entire theater scream at you. I should have been immune to it by now, but for some weird reason I could never get used to people nearly fainting at the sight of me.

She didn't remove it, she just wrapped her palm around it, caressing if it were as much a part of me as the left side she was stroking. I resumed kissing her at once, satisfied that she wasn't intent on prying beneath my mask. Of course, last night, she had made me forget all about it.

"Erik?" she whispered softly, "Do you think we'll be able to...?"

"I think it may be a little crowded. You're going to have to bunk with either Peter or Rachel to accommodate the extra person. I don't think we should just through Madame and Eleonore together. Maybe Eleonore can stay with you."

She sighed heavily. I understood completely.

"We're getting married tomorrow."

Her eyes lit up, "Tomorrow?" she echoed, then sang it "Tomorrow!"

"You don't have to sound so enthused," I said dryly.

She laughed and gave me another soul shocking kiss, then gave me worried look, "I have a million things to do!"

She tried to scramble to her feet, but I held her still, kissing her again until she forgot whatever it was that she needed to prepare. She leaned back against the chair, pulling me against her. The chair slid backwards under our combined weight, and I hooked my arm around her waist and jerked both of the back to me, smiling when her eyes widened.

"You're going to wreak havoc on the furniture," she murmured.

"It won't matter, this place can go up in flames for all I care," I muttered, trying to kiss her again.

"But you worked so hard to clean it up!" she said softly, dodging my attempts at kissing her, "You're just going to let it sit here?"

"No, I'm going to sell it. It has outlived its usefulness."

She gave me an outraged look, but I silenced her with another kiss, deciding that _this_ was the way to win arguments. Especially with her.

"I do have a lot to do," she said pointedly, "especially if you want to be married by this time tomorrow night."

I released her with a sigh, but pulled her to the mantle of the fireplace. There was one last thing that needed to be done. She watched me steadily as I tossed the two books into the fireplace and lit them. She wrapped her arms around me as we watched the edges begin to curl and flutter up the chimney, slowly turning to ash as it swirled up in the smoke.

"She did say that she loved you," she said gently.

"I don't need anyone's love but yours," I whispered fiercely, turning her face upwards so I could look into her eyes, "You are the only woman I want."

She smiled and raised on her toes to kiss me again, "You have all my love, all my heart."

Looking down into her beautiful and peaceful face, I could only reciprocate the response, feeling a lightness in my soul that has never been present before.

As the last link between me and Paris blew away in gentle smoke, I felt for once, that I had been given a purpose.

I was meant for this woman.

_This woman._


	52. Time

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

_Sera_

As it turned out, Erik was right about us not being able to meet again that night. Peter had lain stiffly beside me on the bed, grumbling the entire time before he finally fell asleep, and I had stared at the ceiling for most of the night, envisioning how very different my life would be.

I woke up to a cheerful morning with Eleonore arranging a beautiful bouquet of flowers for me, sitting at my kitchen table humming happily to herself. She glanced up as I entered the room, smiling brightly at me.

"Oh, I love weddings!" she sighed, sounding almost young and girlish, "I was married for fifty one years. Can you imagine that?"

A distant look came into her eyes for a moment, but she shook her head, the smile returning again. I hoped that Erik and I were as happy as she had been.

"I'm glad you could make it," I said softly, "it means a lot to him. He really does think very highly of you."

"He's a complex man," she said quietly, "I'm just happy that I can sense some peace in his heart," she looked at me with a knowing glance, "I think you two are going to have a blessed life together."

"Thank you," I whispered, sitting across from her.

She returned to wrapping the stems of the bouquet in a white satin ribbon, winding it to the top, then the bottom.

"Complete!" she exclaimed, handing it to me for inspection.

"It's lovely," I said softly, stroking the delicate petals of the white roses.

"Now," she said sternly, "I suggest you get into the bath and relax for a few minutes, then put on a gown, because we have to be at the church in two hours for the ceremony. I'll get your bridal attire ready," she murmured, "you just go...and be a bride!"

I laughed, uncertain as to _what_ exactly being a bride entailed, but managed to sit in the bathtub for a few moments before the anxiety of the day finally got to me and I finished as quickly as I could manage. Rachel was waiting for me when I got out, ready to fix my hair any way I liked. Nervously I allowed her to do what she wanted. She assured me that as a former resident of an all girls school, she was quite skilled in the art of hairstyles.

"How is this?" she murmured, holding up a mirror for me.

"Oh." I breathed.

I stared at the tendrils of hair, unsure if I was actually looking at my own. I had no idea how she accomplished it, but my hair resembled what I imagined the women in the ton would wear.

"Thank you," I managed weakly, "it's beautiful."

"Now, you have to go get ready!" she said urgently, "we have to leave in just a few moments."

"Where is Erik?" I asked softly.

"Never mind where he is!" Eleonore chuckled, "You won't be seeing him until the ceremony. Now, go! Get that gown on. We have to get you to the church, get you _in_ your gown, and _down_ the aisle, all without a _hitch._"

She laughed again at her own joke, but I couldn't find amusement in the situation. I was anxious, nervous, and slightly terrified.

What if I wasn't a good wife?

It seemed I wouldn't have much time to reflect on that statement, because Eleonore shooed me again until I found myself being helped into the pale blue dress that I would wear to the church.

Finally, after pacing the cottage for thirty minutes, Madame Giry knocked on the door and announced that a carriage was ready to take us to the church. I was rushed inside the carriage so quickly I barely had time to glance around, hoping to catch a glimpse of Erik. Eleonore sat beside me, carefully holding my wedding dress and the bouquet. Madame Giry and Rachel would be following in another carriage. I was too distracted to even think about where Peter was, although I suspected he was with Nadir and Erik.

The ride to the church was agonizingly long, although in reality it probably only took fifteen minutes. We stopped at a small chapel near the heart of Lyon, and I stepped inside the ancient scarred doors to reveal a charming little nave that was deceptively small looking. Eleonore immediately steered me away from the interior of the church to a small dressing room, helping me out of my dress. She clucked nervously for a moment, looking at my scars, but I knew she had seen them before. The night that Erik had stopped Bernard.

She helped me into my wedding dress, then stepped back to smile at me.

"Oh, Sera," she smiled wistfully.

I turned to look at myself, and was astounded by the transformation. The dress was high necked, with long satin sleeves, full glowing white skirts, and delicate appliqué detailing over the bodice. Combined with my hair piled high onto my head, I looked very little like the rag girl I had been months ago. With a shaky smile, I shook my skirts out, spinning in front of the mirror with a sudden confidence and fierce anticipation.

"How much longer?" I demanded.

"Ten more minutes," she said, amused.

I sighed, continuing to pose in the mirror. When someone knocked on the door, I froze. Eleonore opened it cautiously for a moment, then swung it open wide enough for Peter to dart through.

"Erik wanted to give you this," he announced, thrusting a small package at me.

I shook it, "What is it?"

"Open it," he sighed, rolling his eye.

The box contained a beautiful set of diamond earrings, accentuated by small emeralds surrounding it. I hurried back to the mirror to put them on, thinking that they were perfectly suited to my gown. They would also go exquisitely with my green gown, if I was ever able to wear it.

"He said...," he sighed heavily again, "to tell you..."

"Yes?" I demanded impatiently.

With a groan, and another roll of his eye, he mimicked Erik as best an eleven year old boy could, "Tell Sera that they match her eyes."

He stuck his tongue out at me and laughed when I tried to grab at him. I caught him and hugged him fiercely, "I love you, Peter."

He squirmed for a minute longer, but finally muttered, "I love you too," before I let him go so he could dart back through the door.

I hadn't told him about our mother yet. I wanted to wait until after the ceremony, and I knew how much it was going to affect him.

"Sera?"

I looked over to Eleonore, _"Yes?"_

"It's time."


	53. Living, Breathing Bride

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

She was breathtaking. Truly. I could scarcely breath just looking at her as she slowly walked toward me down the aisle. Peter stood behind me, the perfect little best man, and Rachel stood across from me, thrilled to be included in the ceremony.

But Sera. I could not take my eyes off of her. My_ bride. _Mine.

I couldn't see her face for the longest time, hidden beneath the swathe of lace that covered her entire head, but finally she stood before me, my living breathing bride, and I saw the tears glistening there. Her hands sought mine automatically, calm and assuredly not shaking.

Completely unlike mine.

I was trembling inside and out, unprepared for this moment. I had truly thought it would never happen. Yet, she was here, smiling at me with love, crying tears of joy, looking far too beautiful to be marrying a man like me.

The minister began speaking, but his words were lost on me. I knew in my heart that I would do all those things for her, and so much more. She would never lack for anything, she would always feel safe, and no one would dare to harm my wife. Sera was mine, and I was hers. I vowed that I would forget the past, forget everything but her. If she could forgive me, somehow I would forgive myself.

"Do you have the rings?"

I turned to Peter, taking the rings and handing them to the minister. He held up my band, showing it to Sera in an exaggerated motion.

"This is a symbol. A symbol of your pledge to love Erik for all eternity, a vow of fidelity and loyalty, and a sign of continuity of your life together. The circle, faith hope and love. Do you accept this ring, and the honor and privilege of being the his wife?"

She turned her eyes back to mine, smiling so vividly her entire face seemed to glow behind the veil. She whispered, "I do."

"Erik?" he asked, repeating the same words to me, showing me the wedding band meant for Sera's finger.

"I do."

Was that my voice that sounded like a creaking door? I sounded as if I hadn't spoken in ages.

"Please place the rings on each other's hands."

With shaking hands I did so, and waited expectantly for mine to be slipped on. I closed my eyes as the weight of it slid across my finger. I had never felt something so freeing in my life. Her thumb rotated across the band, and I opened my eyes to see her still smiling. Somehow I found that I was smiling back.

"You may kiss your bride."

_My bride. My living, breathing bride, and now my living, breathing wife._

With awe I lifted the veil, leaning in to kiss her softly. We both kept our eyes open as we kissed, parted for a moment, then kissed again.

I hardly remember leaving the chapel. I sat across from her in the carriage for a moment before I tugged her across the space between us, settling her into my lap.

"We did it," she whispered, unable to stop grinning.

"Yes," I said softly, "we did."

She pressed her lips to mine with great restraint, sighing against me until she was content. The ride was torture with the carriage swaying, her body snug against mine. I wondered if it were possible to desire her more, just by her new position in my life.

"I love you Sera," I said, kissing the top of her head.

"I love you," she replied, tilting her neck to look at me, "I will always love you."

We returned to the manor to find that everyone was gone. The carriage that had left ahead of us had apparently never returned to the house. We stared at each other in the hall for a moment, before my eyes drifted to the stairs in a question that made her smile.

"Upstairs?" she whispered, "During the day?"

I nodded slowly, reaching out to take her hand. Her eyes gleamed, a wicked and rebellious glow that made my heart begin to race. I pulled her up the stairs in eagerness, laughing when she scolded me for going too slow.

"Slow?" I whispered when I finally had her in the room, "Yes, I suspect things may be slow. The first time."

Her eyes widened briefly, then her hands drifted up to the hairpiece. She removed it wordlessly, raking her hands through my hair. I groaned under those agile fingers, thankful for her gentleness and acceptance. She caught my cheeks between her hands and pulled my face down for a sizzling kiss.

"I don't mind slow," she said softly, "especially if it involves pleasure."

"Oh yes...a lot of pleasure," I promised, reaching for the buttons of her gown. She turned around to let me have complete access to her, reaching up to remove the earrings until I stopped her, "Leave them on."

I plied the gown open, dismayed to see a corset beneath, and a chemise under that. I grumbled, telling her there was no need for her to wear something so medieval.

"Thank goodness," she muttered, "because its the last time you'll see me in one."

I unlaced it methodically, tempted to take a knife and simply cut it off her body. When I finally had it undone, I helped her out of the ensemble, smiling when she told me it was my turn.

I spread my arms wide as she unbuttoned my shirt, tugging at the ends of my shirt beneath the waistcoat and overcoat, slipping all three from my shoulders at once, then smiling when she started for my trousers.

I helped her, kissing her gently each time she started to blush, until finally we were both ready...ready for each other, in far more ways than one. I picked her up and carried her to the bed.

"Wasn't I supposed to do this earlier?" I murmured, "Through the threshold?"

"At our new house," she instructed, "we can do things right there. For now...," she leaned up to kiss me, twining her arms around my neck as I let her knees slide the the bed.

She leaned into my body, kissing me, touching me all across my shoulders and back, daring even lower until I raised my head to give her a threatening look.

I pushed her against the mattress, running my own hands across that part of her body, but instead of feeling embarrassed as I had, she rolled her eyes back and sighed, them groaned as my hand moved to her inner thigh...then lower...

I trailed kisses from her jaw to her breasts, whispering to her the entire time, telling her she was beautiful, and she was mine. She opened beneath me as beautifully as a flower, letting me touch her and taste her with no reservation and a shocking lack of modesty. I stroked and caressed her until she was writhing beneath me, her skin slick from exertion, her hands suddenly clenching into my hair, pulling my face back up to hers.

_"Erik."_

The look in her eyes told me everything. I braced above her, feeling her legs lock behind my back, then settled into her slowly, rocking against her with tender and careful movements. I carried her high, letting her get so close...then stopped. Her eyes opened to look at me in confusion, then narrowed suddenly.

"Don't be cruel," she whispered, trying to get me to move again.

I did, twice, then stopped again. I closed my eyes and rested my head against her shoulder, chuckling when she gripped my back in near pain. I kissed her neck greedily, then her ears, making her gasp in delight, then I started moving again until I could stand no more, until she cried against my shoulder, arching her hips and raising off the bed as I heaved against her breathlessly one last time, catapulting us both beyond the edge of sanity and clarity.

The cadence of our hearts finally settled, our bodies still entwined in heat and slowly dying fire. I stroked her cheek gently, tasting her lips with slow deliberation, feeling as far from dying, and yet so close as I had ever been. She made me feel invincible, made me want to soar. I moved slightly, until I was against her side, her body pressed against mine in the mid-day light, her eyes becoming drowsy and drifting closed. I watched her even breathing for what felt like forever, repeating my vows to myself, that I would love, honor, obey, remain loyal forever.

I could do all those things for her, and so much more.

---------------------------

There will be an epilogue...sorry its taking so long. 'A Fleeting Memory' has been in my mind, taking up all my time and ideas.


	54. The Opera

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

I think its possible to get one more chapter out of these two, and close on a note from Erik's POV.

_Sera_

_Versailles, six months later_

The estate was simply magnificent, and as we pulled up to the stone chateau, I held my breath in wonder at the beauty and elegance that it radiated. Designed after the Petit Trianon, the architecture was simple, yet imposing nonetheless. For now, Peter and I clutched hands, knowing well what waited beyond those doors.

Our mother, and quite possibly, my husband.

I hadn't seen him since he left us with Nadir nearly two months ago, readying this estate for us, arranging to have my mother moved here while he worked tirelessly on the house. We had chosen Versailles, still roughly twenty miles from the center of Paris, and yet far enough away that we would both be comfortable. I had been nervous at first, but I knew that he loved me, and that he would be missing me nearly as much as I was missing him.

Tearfully I had let Rachel go with him, and knew he would deliver her safely to Paris, where her family had been waiting for her. She had finally received a letter from them, and they had desperately wanted her to come home. Before I left Charpennes I got a letter from her, telling me she had become betrothed to a young friend of her brother's, and that they were expected to marry within the year. I prayed that it was not a forced marriage, and that she would be happy. Her letter had sounded full of joy, and I knew she was glad to be back with her family, away from the terrible memories she had of France.

Eleonore and Madame Giry had left with him as well, Madame Giry returning home to Paris, and Eleonore moving in to the estate to help Erik finish it for our arrival. During the last two months I had developed a deep bond with Nadir, and he had helped me understand more about Erik than I ever imagined. I knew what misery my husband had endured over the years, and at last understood the desperation he had pursued Christine with.

"Sera?"

"Yes, Peter?" I glanced at him, his fingers clutched nervously in his lap.

Ever since I had told him about our mother, he'd been waiting for this day with a curious mixture of dread and anticipation. I knew being this close to our hometown was frightening, even if Franck Derring had died. Even if our mother was waiting beyond those doors.

The carriage halted, and Nadir opened the door for us, peering back inside when we made no move to leave.

"Peter?"

"What if she doesn't know who we are?" he whispered, his blue eye wavering in the dark light of the carriage, "What if she doesn't recognize us...or me?"

"Of course she's going to know us," I said gently, taking him by the hand, "and especially you. You're her only son."

My heart ached for him, because he really was afraid. He didn't know how to respond to the mother that had been absent for the last few years. He was afraid of disappointing her, or of her not loving him anymore. I tugged him across the carriage, and to my surprise he followed willingly, allowing me to caress his cheek, and kiss the top of his head. The last few months had wrought a remarkable change in him. Being around Erik, and subsequently Nadir had given him the confidence he had so desperately needed in men, and the knowledge that they were not all cruel.

"She loves us...remember the letter?"

His hand reached up to touch his pocket absently, where the letter had resided ever since I had given it to him after the wedding. He nodded against my chest, drawing in a shaky breath.

"I-I want to see her," he said fiercely, and bounded out of the carriage with newfound courage.

I followed leisurely, smiling at Nadir as he helped me down. He offered me his arm and led me to the front door of the estate, which was promptly flung open and I found myself looking into my husband's intense green eyes.

"Sera," he said softly, then wrenched me away from Nadir with a glare at him. He pulled me against him and kissed my cheek, his breath against my ear in a warm caress.

"I missed you," I said, the words coming out as a grunt because he was holding me so tightly.

Peter slipped past us both without saying hello, and I peered over Erik's shoulder when he made a strangled noise. The rest of the words died in my throat as I saw the woman standing behind us.

Erik released me when he realized I had seen her, and we turned to face her pale and wrinkled form, leaning heavily on Eleonore's arm. She had aged rapidly since I last saw her, but she was still beautiful, still very proper, and she was smiling and crying at the same time as she glanced between Peter and I.

"M-mama?" Peter whispered, moving forward by painful degrees until she could reach him. Her arms left Eleonore's, and she embraced Peter, forcing him to bear most of her weight. I started forward immediately as he staggered back under the pressure, but he appeared to have compensated for her movement, and was hugging her back as gently as he could under the circumstances.

"Peter," she choked out, running her hands through his hair, kissing his forehead. She peered back long enough to look at his face, seeing the eye patch before she started crying. I went to them and placed my hands across her back, feeling how thin and frail she was. I was relieved that she was out of bed, but worried she was going to exhaust herself at this display.

"Mama, you should be resting," I said gently.

She turned to me, her hands trembling as she reached out to me, and I placed my arm beneath hers to support her. I glanced up to Erik, who was watching with a grim look on his face.

"Erik, she needs to be resting." I repeated to him, "Can you carry her to her room?"

Without a word he crossed over and lifted her in his arms. She made a sound of distress, looking over his shoulder at us as he carried her down a long hallway around the edge of the stairs. I grabbed Peter's hand and rushed after them, finding him laying her on a large bed in...a conservatory! I looked out the windows in astonishment, and saw the most beautiful garden behind us, filled with winter roses and hedges, statues and fountains.

For early December, it was surprisingly warm inside, and I could see where he had adjusted everything so that the temperature wouldn't be too extreme. Her bed was against the exterior wall of the house, overlooking the gardens and the rest of the estate. A fireplace had been built as well, and drapes that could be pulled shut to block out daylight or anyone outside that she didn't wish to see.

"Mama, its beautiful," I breathed, looking around the room with awe. "Erik did this for you?"

"Oh, yes," she said softly, "he's such a gentleman. You're lucky to have him."

I turned to find him smiling at the compliment, but he didn't reply. He stepped away from the bed and stood behind me, pressing another kiss to my cheek. I lifted his hand to my mouth, "Thank you," I whispered.

My mother's eyes drifted closed, and we left her alone with Peter, with a firm promise that he wouldn't disturb her. Once he got me out into the hall he spun me around, his eyes suddenly full of passion as he kissed me.

"I missed you too," he muttered, "and you are never leaving me again."

"I didn't leave you!" I gasped, "I wanted to come, but you were too stubborn. You had to have everything perfect, because you had to have your way."

"Don't argue," he smiled wryly, kissing me again.

I did stop, for awhile.

Then he tugged me through the chateau, showing me the eleven bedrooms with corresponding baths, dozens of rooms we would never use, the kitchen which I was forbidden to enter, and then given a brief glimpse of a green and blue bedroom that he had announced as ours. I had tried to draw him inside, and with a firm shake of his head he had led me back downstairs.

Madame Giry and Eleonore stood at the newel post, looking as fierce as two dragons as they held up the green evening gown I had foolishly purchased.

"We found this as we were unpacking your things, Madame. If you would be so kind, Erik, I have arranged for you to attend tomorrow night's opera. I trust you will accompany your wife?" Madame Giry demanded.

He tensed beside me, "Madame Giry, I don't think attending would be wise."

"Why?" she said calmly, "You have nothing to fear. Your wife will be with you. I have complete access to the theater now, and you will not be seen from your box."

"Not box five, I trust," he bit out.

"Whatever box you desire." she returned evenly. "What do you say?"

He glanced at Nadir a moment, who nodded his head encouragingly, the looked to me, "Sera? Would you like to attend?" he asked hesitantly.

I wanted to ask if Christine was performing, but kept my mouth shut. I _did_ want to attend, although I had not dreamed that I would be going back to Paris so soon.

"Can my mother and Eleonore go?" I asked slowly.

He turned to Madame Giry, who nodded.

"Then, I should like to attend."

-----------------------------

Yes, we're definitely going to get another chapter out of Erik. I'm trying to keep my Defying fans satisfied, although I must admit I'd rather be working on Laure and Erik's wedding.


	55. Following

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera

_Erik_

I was apprehensive as I handed Madame Derring off to Nadir, and assisted Eleonore from the carriage. Peter vaulted out behind them, then I looked up to Sera, who was absolutely breathtaking in that gown. I had been a little angry that she hadn't worn it yet, if only so I could take it off.

"Sera, if you will follow them into the theater, I will be in the box by the time you arrive," I said quietly, intending for her to go with them.

"No. I want to go with you," she said firmly.

"There will be spiders," I reminded her, "those passages haven't been used in over a year. Are you certain?"

"I'm certain."

She didn't look certain, and with a shrug to Nadir, I escorted her to a secret entrance in the alley beside the theater. She watched with wide eyes as I pushed a stone on the building and opened the door, then stepped inside.

I waited a moment for her to follow, then tugged her in after me, closing the door.

"The purpose of a secret entrance is to keep it secret, Sera."

"Its dark," she complained as I pulled her down the tunnel.

"Yes, well, it is a secret entrance," I reminded her again. "You should have gone with them."

I let go of her hand for a moment to light a torch, and she ran directly into my back.

"Sorry," she whispered, and brushed at my opera cloak.

"Have you injured yourself?" I asked quietly.

"No."

I lit the torch quickly, and drew her down the tunnel, "Let us proceed then, Madame Gervais."

She followed in silence as I made my way upstairs, and I couldn't help but feel a clenching in my gut as I bypassed several entrances that would have taken me to my former home.

My former cell.

Finally, we arrived at the passageway that would lead us to our box, but I turned to kiss her one last time before we continued.

"No matter what, Sera, I love _you_. I will always love you, and only you."

"I know she's singing tonight, and I know what it means for you to hear her. I know you're proud of her," she said softly. "It doesn't mean that you love me less. Stop worrying."

I couldn't help but placate her again before we made our way to the shadowed box where Madame Giry was already waiting.

"So glad you could join us," she said cordially. "I regret I cannot stay longer, I merely wanted to welcome you, and hope you have a pleasant evening."

"Thank you," I bowed to her slightly.

I was amused when Sera performed a gracious curtsy, and Adele left.

We settled back against the chairs, and I looked down on the theater I had nearly destroyed.

It appeared that with money, anything was possible.

The only thing noticeably different was that the chandelier was not the original. Garnier would roll over in his grave if he knew the atrocious thing they replaced it with hung in his theater.

"Its beautiful," Sera whispered, leaning over the balcony to look around.

She blushed when she took in the figures of the naked women lounging against the circular wall.

"Is it everything you thought it would be?" I murmured, watching as her eyes lit up when she looked down on the people below us.

"I love it," she sighed, then settled back against her chair.

Nadir entered the box, leading Madame Derring gently with Peter's assistance, and I stood to offer my chair, which the frail lady nearly collapsed in. I was worried about her, and hoped that she would live far longer than she appeared she would. Hopefully being reunited with Sera and Peter would give her the strength to live for several more months.

"Thank you, Erik," she said weakly, and leaned against the chair only for a moment before straightening her spine to sit ladylike in her chair.

Once the lights dimmed, I noticed she sank back against it.

They had chosen to open to _Don Carlos_, and the tenor playing him did a superb job, whoever he was. I glanced down at my program, and saw that his name was Carlos Giudicelli.

No kidding.

I could actually _see_ a resemblance to Carlotta. Too bad she had not possessed her relative's singing ability. She could have gone far.

Christine, as Elisabeth, entered in the second scene of act one. I looked over to Sera, and she was leaning forward in her chair, eyes narrowed as she peered down at her. I silently handed her my theater glasses, and she looked at me in surprise as I smiled grimly at her.

The glasses were immediately brought up to her eyes, and I held my breath as she watched.

Then, Christine began to sing.

I turned my attention back to the stage, stunned at the clarity of her voice. She had not forgotten one single thing I had taught her. Somehow I had expected, and half hoped, that she would be horrid.

She wasn't.

I had purposely asked for a box furthest from the stage, and did not attempt to retrieve my glasses from my now attentive wife. Yet, I wanted to see her.

I cursed myself for feeling anything, and instead reached for Sera's hand.

She turned to me and squeezed my my fingers, and I looked in awe at the tears that slid down her face.

"She's lovely, Erik. You did a wonderful job tutoring her," she said simply.

I nodded, too confused to speak.

Why was my wife crying over the woman who had nearly destroyed me?

I watched the rest of the performance, but my mind was on Sera. I couldn't concentrate after that, no matter how beautiful the aria.

When the applause began, and I lifted my eyes back to the stage, Christine was bowing, and I saw her eyes were on box five. I glanced over at it, and saw that it was empty.

Then she turned her attention to the other side of the theater, where her husband was clapping heartily for her, and they shared a smile before she rushed off stage.

_But she looked for me first._

I didn't know what to think about that.

"Well, that was splendid," Madame Derring said. "Did I hear Sera say you were her tutor?"

"Yes, Madame. A long time ago."

"You must be proud of her. Will you be going to see her now?"

"I'm afraid not, Madame. I believe we are all eager to go back to the hotel, are we not?" I said, hoping I could appeal to her tiredness.

"Indeed. I think I will be glad to lie down," she said wearily.

"Nadir? Could you escort these ladies back downstairs? I think Sera and I may walk back to the hotel, if you don't mind."

He studied me for a moment, but nodded. He helped Madame Derring out the door, and helped Eleonore as well. Poor man, having to guide two elderly women around as if he were my assistant, and not my friend.

"Sit," I said, turning to Sera.

She did, though not without giving me a suspicious look.

We watched the assembly leave, and the stage hands removing props and begin cleaning up.

"Erik?"

"Did this bother you?" I asked quietly, "I told you before we came in here...I don't love her. I love you. Did you think that had changed? Is that why you were crying?"

"No!" she said quickly. "I was crying, because her voice...it was magical. Beautiful. I've never heard anything like it."

"Sera..."

"_Erik!"_ she said sharply, "I do not question your love for me. Ever! I never have, and I never will. I hope you don't question mine for you."

"Of course not."

"Then you should know how I feel about you," she said gently. "You should know how much I love you, and that nothing could change it. Not even a beautiful song from Christine."

"I do love you," I whispered, bringing her hand to my lips.

"And I love you," she returned, sliding out of her chair to kneel before me on the floor. "How does it feel being back here?"

"Terrifying. But not as much as I expected it would be."

"Do you want to leave?" she whispered, searching my eyes.

I hesitated a moment, then asked, "Would you like to see my former home?"

"I would be honored."

So I led her down, and down, and down. I expected her to complain after awhile, but she didn't, and I surveyed the damage as I descended. There had been a lot of people here after the fire, and undoubtedly still knew the way. I hoped we didn't encounter anyone, but it was silent as always.

Like a sepulcher.

I avoided the lake as much as I could, but she seemed to find it fascinating, and claimed that it was beautiful. I had thought so too. At first.

She followed me into the small room that had served as my bedroom, and it was then that I remembered the coffin. I turned my head to hers, but she was staring at it with horror.

"Is there anyone in it?" she whispered.

"No."

"Then...why?"

"You don't want to know," I said dryly, and pulled her from the room. There was nothing left inside, except the coffin. In the area where the organ used to sit, a large pile of my things had been dumped in the center, and someone had been kind enough to torch them. The organ itself was beaten beyond recognition, the pipes torn from the walls, half of the instrument tossed into the lake, half on top of the pile of my furniture and other things that they had destroyed.

I was surprised that I didn't feel anger. I was surprised that I didn't feel anything at all...except a sense of relief that I was no longer here. I no longer had to confine myself to this room.

I was also relieved that someone had destroyed every painting I had ever done of Christine.

That would not have been fun to explain.

Nothing of value was left in my former home. Nothing worth saving, nothing that I cared to remember or take with me. Except my wife. Except Sera.

"It was once beautiful," she said softly. "I can tell that it was very unique."

"There are other words I would choose to describe it."

"No. It was beautiful. But I'm glad you don't have to live here anymore. Was it always this cold?" she asked, running her hands along her arms.

"Yes."

"Always so dark?"

"No. I had many, many candles," I said, indicating the candelabras that were piled on the floor.

"I'm glad you don't live here anymore," she said again.

"So am I," I said quietly.

She looked at me then, and smiled the beautiful smile. Sera, resplendent in her gown that matched her eyes. My wife, smiling at me, in the dark empire I had created, which had become my cell. I didn't feel a sense of freedom as I looked at her. There were no more weights to be lifted from my shoulders, no more chains that flew away from my heart.

She had already taken them all, the day we married.

I had given myself to her completely, and until now I had not realized it.

"Are you ready to return?" I asked.

"You lead, and I will follow, my love," she whispered.

And I did.

----------------------------

Sorry it took so long to complete it. I hope you enjoyed this story, and forgave me for becoming so consumed by A Fleeting Memory. Thank you for all your reviews!


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